


On my way to work

by Rioviolina



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: AU# Cynthia Lennon#various characters#slow burn#plot?whatplot#, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-19
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2019-10-12 20:51:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 52,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17474792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rioviolina/pseuds/Rioviolina
Summary: Two travellers meet.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> It's an idea, but I only have the beginning. Hopefully more will come.

Liverpool buses on a rainy Monday morning are definitely not the place to be when you have a hangover. Especially a hangover like John's. A brain-shredding, hammer thumping, needles behind the eyes kind of hangover. And the weather didn't help. Or the bus. Or what happened to the bus when the weather was wet. What happened was more people got on. What happened was it steamed up, windows fogged with breath. Other peoples' breath. What happened was passengers crammed on like sardines, squeezing in every available inch of space. Stepping on toes. Carrying dripping umbrellas which proceeded to shower everyone with unwanted and unwelcome drops. What happened was John was managing, just about, to hold on to his tiny bit of seat as the woman next to him, wearing a very hairy, wet and smelly coat, was overspilling her seat onto his. John couldn't decide if she was extraordinarily large or if she simply wore layers and layers of clothes against the cold, miserable November weather that had plunged Liverpool into gloom.

Gloom. John rolled the word around his mouth. It tasted good. Doom and gloom. It about summed up his life. And the weather.

The woman next to him shifted on her seat, wet coat brushing John's thighs. He glared at her ... not that she noticed ... and moved further across, nearer to the aisle. Maybe that's what she wanted. More of the space. If so, she'd just got her way. John ground his teeth and mulishly pushed back trying to ignore the press of wet coat seeping into his trousers. He felt her eyes on him but kept his stubbornly fixed on the passengers in front of him. The smell of sodden clothes was almost overpowering.

The bus stopped to pick up more passengers and John glanced up in alarm. How many more could they possibly cram on? There was a surge of movement towards the back of the bus as those standing squashed further together, hanging onto the metal poles, the backs of seats, in order to keep their balance, an underlying muttering about the inadequacy of the bus service uniting unlikely bedpartners. John dropped his eyes back to the book he held of which he'd read not one line. It hurt his eyes too much and there were too many distractions also. But ... it acted as a defence. A shield against being spoken to. Normally ... well, no, not normally ... scrub that. Sometimes. Yes, that was better. Sometimes John could be quite chatty. Happy to talk to the person next to him. Delve into someone else's life, find out what made them tick. But not today. So out came the book.

The bus took off again, causing a Mexican wave of stumbling, falling passengers.  
John's reverie was broken when someone landed heavily in his lap with an "Oof ... fuckin' hell."

Shit! He ... he?? ... was heavy, and John's wrists, plus book, were trapped under a stranger's bottom.  
Before John had time to react though the stranger leapt up, remarkably agile considering the bus was gathering speed, and faced John with a bright smile.  
A really bright smile.  
How could anyone be that cheerful at twenty five to nine in the morning?  
"Sorry" said the smile. "The bus ... it ... it ..." Lost for words the stranger waved his left hand in the air, momentarily letting go of his anchor at the same time the bus took a corner  
at speed and he lost his footing, this time falling haphazardly across John's chest. A warmth, a smell of cologne, a tickle of dark hair, then the guy pushed himself back off John, using him as leverage, strong fingers digging in to John's chest. This time amused eyes with a definite twinkle in them danced in his immediate vision for just one moment.  
One moment.  
John ... never normally lost for words ... ask anyone! ... was bemused. Speechless.  
That smile spread. "Really sorry. Gotta stop meeting like this."

When John didn't respond, the man's smile fell, his eyes lost that twinkle, and he pushed himself determinedly onto his feet, grabbing firm hold of a pole.  
"Sorry" he muttered, and turned his back to John, shuffling up to make room as yet another wave of passengers made yet another surge towards the back of the bus.

John blinked, bemused.  
A swathe of emotions had battered him during that brief episode, and like a diver surfacing, he slowly became aware again of the woman next to him, of the murmur of complaints from passengers hanging on to various seats about 'bloody incompetent drivers', of the steamy windows, the runnels of rain.  
And his hangover.

"Told you not to drink so much" had been his flatmate's reaction over a hastily grabbed black coffee before he left that morning.  
Ah, Ringo, bless him. Like a mother hen, clucking around him. Tut, tut, tut. Head shaking, mopping up the kitchen counter.  
"Don't know why you don't ditch him. He's no good for you."  
John had stretched his arms out across the counter, leaning his head on the cool, wet surface.  
He closed his eyes, wishing he could stay there. Like, forever.  
"But I love him, Rings" he'd muttered, his lips grazing the counter.  
Blessed darkness. Eyes shut.  
"Don't wanna go to work." He'd added that as an even quieter murmur. A little bit of revolt. Even if true.  
There was a pause. He tried to peel an eye open, check if Ringo was still there.  
Well, of course he was.  
"Tough titty" snorted Ringo. "It's called life, son. Y' gotta work to pay the bills. I can't keep the two of us. Much as I love you."  
John let his head roll to the side. Now his ear was experiencing the cool wet surface. It was nice.  
He peered in the direction he vaguely thought Ringo was in, judging by the sound of his voice.  
"You love me?" he queried lazily, teasingly.  
He felt rather than saw Ringo draw himself up straighter.  
"Not in THAT way, y' daft bat. Come on, John, I've gotta go. Hair to cut an' all that. Customers waiting."  
Trying desperately to respond, John pushed himself up, away from the counter, and a wave of nausea washed over him, the room spinning. He automatically stayed still until everything stopped spinning again. Or was he the one that was spinning?  
He could feel Ringo's eyes on him, assessing.  
"That bad, huh?"  
John nodded weakly. "That bad, Rings."  
He shut his eyes.  
Crap. Big mistake. He opened them again quickly.  
"How much did you have last night?"  
Actually, he was debating the same question himself.  
Ringo didn't wait for a response.  
"He's a bad egg, that one."  
John felt the need to defend his boyfriend. "He's okay, Rings. Just a bit .. loose, is all."  
"Yeah, a fucking loose cannon. And he takes you down with him."  
John tried to shake his head, but it just caused another wave of nausea.  
"Should get yourself a nice boy."  
"Don't want a nice boy."  
"He's trouble, you'll see."  
"Don't care."  
"Well, you should."  
Ringo threw the dishcloth into the sink.  
They'd been through this before. Like ... every day?  
Yeah, he reckoned. Probably.  
He heaved a sigh.  
"John, I've gotta go to work. It's a late night, so I won't be back till about eight. If you get chance, can you pick us up some milk."  
John nodded weakly, eyes squinting. It seemed the best medium. "Milk, yeah."  
"And we're nearly out of bread, too."  
His voice was a whisper. "Bread. Sure."

He dragged his thoughts back from that morning as he felt the bus draw up at a stop, and glanced hurriedly out of the window to ascertain exactly where they were. The rain seemed to have gather in it's intensity. People were pushing by in an attempt to dismount the bus, and John recognised the cloth of a camel coat as the owner deftly slipped around an immovable passenger grimly hanging on to a metal pole. Ah .. the guy that had sat on him. Wonder where he worked, then? William Brown Street? Well ... lots of options round here. John began to weave a little story. World Museum? Central Library? Not anything mundane, that was for sure. Not like him. Mundane was his middle name. Oh no, Mr Camel Coat would have it all ... good education, fantastic job, smile to die for ... John snarled. Definitely a smile to die for. God, how he hated him. 

At the sound of the snarl, the woman in the wet hairy coat glanced at him in alarm. Glaring back unrepentantly at her, John's eyes just happened to catch, outside of the bus window, Mr Camel Coat himself, flipping open a black umbrella, hoisting what looked like a lap-top bag onto his shoulder. John felt a quiet satisfaction that he'd probably been right. Better than him. Everyone was better than him. Everyone. Fuck.

"'Scuse me, love ... my stop." The wet woman rose (staggered) to her feet ... miles of material and body and boots and bags and ...  
John looked up at her.  
"Fuck!" he said.

 

Paul was excited. And nervous. So nervous he'd not been able to eat any breakfast despite his flatmate's urgings.  
"Come on, Paul ... just a piece of toast" George cajoled him.  
Holding on brightly to his smile, nonetheless Paul shook his head.  
George cocked his head onto one side, surveying him carefully.  
"Are you nervous?"  
Paul shook his head, re-considered, then nodded.  
"Ah, you'll be fine. Awesome, is what you are. Kids just love you. You've got no worries. Well, long as you find your voice before you leave, that is."  
Paul chuckled, and George was relieved to hear it. To see Paul smiling and laughing and ... well, just living again. It meant a lot to George. It had been a hard climb.  
He nudged Paul in the side, receiving a startled flutter of lashes from his friend.  
"Might even be some nice librarian, you never know" George whispered conspiratorially.  
Paul flushed. Not sure he wanted another relationship. Male or female.  
Nope. He'd just stick to his books and music. They were safe.  
He blinked bemusedly as George thrust a foil package into his hands.  
"What's this?" he questioned, looking closely at his friend.  
Now it was George's turn to colour.  
"Just ... er ... y'know ... some sandwiches. Case you forget to eat."  
A wave of affection flooded Paul and he gave George an impetuous hug.  
George batted him off fondly.  
"Ah, go on, y' daft bugger. Someone's gotta look after y'. I'll see you tonight when y' get back."

Even the rain couldn't dampen Paul's enthusiasm. He'd been trying to get a decent job for, oh, ages, now. So long he could hardly remember. An English degree should have counted for something, but he never seemed to have got off to a good start, unlike so many of his colleagues, who'd gone into teaching, editing, journalism ... or just travelling. And what had Paul got into? A relationship. He shuddered, and flipped his umbrella open as he headed determinedly for the bus stop. Time to put all that behind him. Eyes front, Paul, he told himself. Move on. He walked quickly, his feet making a sharp clicking sound over the pavement. There was the bus stop ... and ... his heart sank ...a queue. Oh no! That probably meant the previous bus hadn't turned up, then. He couldn't be late today. Not today of all days.

His first day. His heart skipped a beat. First day, new job. At the Central Library no less. As a child he'd looked in awe at that majestic building. Impressive outside and in with it's polished wood and circular bookshelves that contained so many treasures. His mother had used to relate the time she'd lost him in there, and found him curled up under a desk devouring a picture book of dragons.   
"I was only five" he would remind her. And she would ruffle his hair and smile lovingly.   
His eternal memory of her, wrapped tight and held close.

"Lovely weather for ducks."  
Paul blinked bemusedly at the voice in his ear, so lost in thought he'd been.  
He smiled warmly at the middle aged lady who was sheltering under an enormous umbrella.  
As was everyone else in the queue.  
Well ... apart from a couple of schoolkids with their hoods pulled up.  
He vaguely wondered how all these umbrellas would fit on the bus.  
Maybe they should send another bus? Just to take the umbrellas?  
His smile grew at the ridiculous thought.

Then the bus swept round the corner, already crowded. Standing room only.  
Paul was conscious of the wet smell that permeated the vehicle. Of the slippy, slightly muddy floor. Of someone gently but persistently shoving him in the back, making him move further down the bus. He turned to steady himself as the bus lurched forward and he lost his footing and landed heavily in someone's lap. Embarrassed he shot to his feet, mindful of the expletive that had just left his lips, hoping, praying, it wasn't some elderly person he'd just squashed. To his relief it was a guy. Probably about his own age. Staring back at him in befuddlement, paperback book open on his lap. A fellow reader then. Paul's face lit up ... it could have been worse. As he apologised, he let go of the pole he'd grabbed onto as the bus swept round a corner and he fell forwards onto the guy again. He smelt of home ... tea and toast and ... books and ... clean washing ....  
Jesus!  
Paul levered himself back up, his face puce. He tried to pass it off as a joke.  
"Really sorry. Gotta stop meeting like this."

Oh! The man looked totally unimpressed. Oh.  
Paul took a step back, and someone swore.  
He'd probably trodden on somebodies toe.  
Then the bus stopped and another crowd of people got on ... how many more could they possibly fit? .... and he was pushed further down the bus, the movement releasing him from the implacable stare.   
He hoped ... he desperately hoped ... it wasn't an omen for how the rest of the day would go.  
He needed this to work.  
Drawing his camel coat closer around him, he held firmly to his lap-top bag and umbrella and mentally urged the bus to reach his destination quickly.


	2. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I only have a very vague idea for this story, so I'm going to carry on writing and see what happens. Just want to say that, despite any insinuations of previous relationships, this is not intended as a John/Paul from previous fics.  
> Also, this chapter begins, very slightly, to put a little flesh on the bones.  
> Comments always appreciated.

John shifted over into the recently vacated seat which brought him closer to the window. The air there seemed colder, and the condensation caused by the breath of many passengers gathered and ran in streams down the inside of the glass. This, combined with the rain streaming down the outside of the window too caused the whole area to be one very wet aspect. John was sure that if you gathered up all the water in the world and suddenly released it, then this was where it was falling. He spread his fingers in their worn, green and brown striped fingerless gloves, idly considering the fact that maybe webbed hands and feet would be useful if this deluge continued.

A body landed heavily with a grunt into the seat he'd just vacated. John surveyed the newcomer from under his lashes. Not Mr Camel Coat, then, although the middle aged chap had landed with about the same weight. The bus swung round a corner, and the guy leaned, forced by the momentum, into John. He pulled back, closer to that ... ugh, gross! ... window. This was people's breath. Yuck! Maybe he should have walked. Well, no, that would be stupid. All the way from Garston. Too far. But he was fed up of being surrounded, having his space invaded, by people and their ... breath. He gathered himself up, made himself as small as possible. First Mrs Ginormous with her bags and coats and layers, then Mr Camel Coat with his umbrella and smile too bright to be real, now Mr Cloth Cap who was giving him a cheery grin from a mouth missing a few teeth.

John didn't respond. He dropped his eyes back to his ... now somewhat wet ... book.  
Why was it wet?  
He did the automatic response of glancing up to see if water was dripping from the ceiling. Well, everything up there looked a bit manky too.  
In fact, life was manky.

He sighed, thinking of Ringo that morning. Yeah, he'd drunk too much.  
And maybe Ringo was right.  
Louis was a bit too much for him. Hard to keep up with.  
A skinny nineteen year old who played in one of the local rock bands.  
Who lived life on the edge. Usually high on whatever came his way, tossing pills down with bottles of whisky.  
Talking ten to the dozen, hands gesticulating, skinny body gyrating, eyes glassy.  
Fucking anything that moved.   
John slumped back against his seat.  
Yeah, anything.  
John might regard himself as Louis' boyfriend, but Louis certainly didn't show him the same respect.  
"You're a soft touch" Ringo had said. "A bed for the night. A bottle paid for. A handful of pills acquired. That's all you are, mate. And he expects you to keep up with him."  
That narked. "Fuckin' hell, Rings, I'm only twenty seven. I ain't over the hill yet."  
"Aye, twenty seven with a job. An' what does he do? Plays a gig, gets high, gets drunk, crashes out somewhere then does it all again the next day. He doesn't have to get up in a morning and ... go .. to ... work." Ringo punctuated each word with a finger stab.  
"They're a good group." John protested feebly.  
Well, Ringo had heard them. Personally, he didn't think that much of them, but then he'd never been into the heavy metal side of rock. He liked to hear a tune, at least.  
"Maybe, but they ain't going nowhere."  
John bristled. "What makes you say that? They've got bookings most nights."  
"Yeah, but always the same seedy little joints. It's a cult following. Anyway, most of 'em will be wrecked before they reach your age. Burnt out. Seen it before."  
John chewed his lip thoughtfully. Trouble with Ringo most of the time was ... he was right.  
John did feel his age when he was with Louis.  
Sometimes he felt like a spare part, tagging along.  
He'd seen the other members of the group, all equally young, giving eye rolls and nudging one another.  
He was an easy pick.  
"Got a fag, John?"  
"Buy us a drink?"  
"Can I borrow a couple of quid? Just ... y'know ..."  
Yeah, a soft touch.  
Trouble was ... John just loved the vibes they gave off.  
Loved watching them perform.  
So much energy ... even if they were wired.  
So much ... noise.  
Noise. 

The sound of the bus tyres squealing through an enormous puddle of water which splashed up the window roused John.  
If that hadn't, then the teeth rattling jolt as it's front tyres hit a pot hole would have.  
Fuck, his stop.  
He leapt to his feet, startling Mr Missing Teeth, and abruptly clambered over the man's feet.

He couldn't be late.   
It was drilled into him.  
He could not be late.  
Ringo would be so disappointed in him.  
It was thanks to him he'd got this job. A friend of a friend of someone whose hair Ringo cut.  
His last job, at HMV .... well, he'd been sacked.  
He wasn't sure if it was because he was always late because he was inevitably hungover from the night before with Louis, or because he'd turned a blind eye to the fact that Louis had come into the store and calmly pocketed a handful of CD's and walked out with them ... all in front of John ... who'd pretended not to notice ... and ... yeah, well, next day he'd been told he wasn't needed anymore. He winced painfully at the memory. Fucking embarrassing.

"His name's Brian" said Ringo, handing John a scrap of paper. "He owns a bar in the city centre. Called Brian's Place .... " Ringo winced at the absurdity. " It's open at nights but most of it's trade is in the day. Bit of an upmarket lunch time snack bar. They serve, er ... like ... trendy food." Not doing trendy food himself, Ringo wasn't sure what this entailed. But he'd met Brian a couple of times. Even cut his hair for him once. Nice guy, but ... " er ... you oughta know ... he's as gay as a fruitcake. Should suit you " Ringo added under his breath, and John had shot him a look from beneath drawn brows.  
Ringo blushed, shoved the paper into John's hand. "Just ... don't fuck it up, eh?"

Don't fuck it up.  
John's mantra,  
repeated under his breath.  
Don't fuck it up.  
Don't open your bloody big gob and put your foot in it.

He was a nice guy, even if he did eye John up speculatively. He never made a move, though.  
John ... prick tease that he was ... was almost tempted to make a move on Brian, just to see what he'd do.  
He didn't, though.  
Don't fuck it up was emblazoned across his forehead.  
He just couldn't let Ringo down.

John waltzed blithely in through the green painted door which had strands of (fake) seaweed trailing over and round it, entwined within which were (also fake) tiny shells and starfish. God, how John hated seafood. Sod's law said he'd be serving it.  
"I'm here" he sang out into the empty bar.  
Brian looked up from his position behind the bar, a red flush creeping up his cheeks.  
"Hiya, John" Lizzie sang out back to him.  
He took a moment to admire the long shapely legs topped by a bright smile.  
The second bright smile he'd seen that day.  
"How's life, darling" he teased, and saw from the corner of his eye Brian duck back disappointedly under the bar.  
Lizzie ... nineteen and stunningly attractive in an alternative way ... swanned over to him, and planted a big kiss on his cheek. There was a twinkle in her eye. They both liked winding Brian up. Accomplices in the art.  
"All the better for seeing you, Johnny boy" she beamed.  
They eyed each other up, smiles playing at the corners of their mouths. They were safe with each other. Friends.   
Lizzie's boyfriend was a long distance lorry driver who worshipped the floor she walked on.  
John had met him a couple of times, had his fingers crushed in a handshake, been assessed as to his threat status, dismissed when Jake realised he didn't bat that way, and had then been bought a pint .. or two .. or three ... or ... he couldn't remember. But, yeah, he was a nice guy. A good guy. A BIG guy ... just don't mess with his Lizzie.  
A discreet cough brought them both back to earth.  
"Erm ... we should be preparing the patties. When you're both ready."  
Lizzie winked slowly.  
"Patties?" John queried. "What the fuck ... erm, what on earth is a pattie?"  
Brian waved his hand expressively. "It's the latest thing. A tiny round of pastry with a touch of cheese ... best with Stilton .. a little smidgeon of cranberry ... a tiny dash of garlic and basil, topped off with a throw of rocket."  
John was about to say something cutting when Lizzie nudged him.  
"Oh .. er ... darling, I'd say."  
Lizzie turned away to hide her laughter.  
Brian eyed John speculatively. Was he being sarcastic?  
Brian thought they were darling little things too. So .. tiny and perfect .. but ... could John actually think the same? Really?  
Maybe he was a kindred spirit after all.   
He gave John the benefit of the doubt.  
"Oh, they are, John. Darling little things."  
"And ... they're on for lunch today, are they?"  
Brian smiled. "Certainly are. Adrian has started preparing them, but he might need a hand."  
John glanced towards the kitchen where he could see the ... chef?   
No, Adrian didn't warrant the title.  
If it was ready made, then he could put it together. Make it look nice. Charge a fortune.  
All these people with more money than sense who wandered in here at a lunch time looking for ... something different.  
Twenty somethings with good jobs and toned figures who counted calories and patted their hair into place.  
Jesus, he hated them.  
He wouldn't go somewhere like that for lunch.  
The pub for a pie and pint, or the chippy, was more up his street.  
John straightened himself as if going in for battle.  
"Well, better go help hadn't I, then?" he said to no one in particular.

 

"So today you'll be shadowing Emma. She's been with us for a few years now. I'll introduce you to her in a moment. She's very good with the children ... a real natural. They absolutely love her. Very popular."  
Paul winced inwardly at the gushing enthusiasm of the older woman who was showing him round ... as if he didn't know the library like the back of his hand already. But he was far too polite to say so. And starting to feel somewhat inadequate in the face of such praise for the person who would be his colleague.   
As if sensing his hesitation, Mrs. Henderson (he'd been introduced to her like that and had no idea of her first name) glanced at him curiously.  
"You, er ... like children, Paul?"  
He started. Bloody hell, better pull himself together or they'd think he wasn't up to the job.  
He nodded, cleared his throat, found his voice, all the time aware of her scrutinising eyes.  
"Yes. Yes, I do."  
She didn't look totally convinced. He fidgeted, then told himself to stop it.  
Seemed like he was always telling himself to stop things.  
Maybe she didn't believe him.  
"Hmmm. Good. That's good. Particularly if you are working in the children's section."  
She sounded doubtful. Doubtful, Paul wondered, as to his reply, or his ability?  
"Are you from round here, at all?"  
"Yes. I'm from Allerton, originally."  
There was a hint of a smile. "Ah, the golf course."  
Paul returned the smile. "Yeah, not far."  
She fingered the lanyard that swung round her neck. Paul had been handed a similar one when he'd arrived that morning stating his name and area of expertise.  
Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, although there was no one around in the archive section to hear them.  
"Children's Literature, I'm told."  
Paul blinked bemusedly, trying to pick up the swift change of subject. She must be referring to him.  
"Er, yes ... I did my M.A. on that."  
She looked almost relieved. Did she think he'd cheated on his application?  
"Ah, wonderful. Which university?"  
"Manchester ... I went to Manchester."  
"Oh ... not too far from home then?"

No, not too far from home.  
That had been important at the time.  
Near enough to pop back if his dad had needed him.  
Near enough to be handy if Mike needed an ear to listen to him.  
Maybe he should have gone elsewhere.

Mrs. Henderson was gazing at him expectantly.  
She'd asked him something, hadn't she.  
Shit.  
"Erm, sorry, I didn't catch ..."  
She didn't look very amused.  
"I asked you if you'd enjoyed it there."  
"Oh. Oh, yes, I did. It was very ... good."  
He didn't sound particularly positive, and was strongly aware of that.  
Manchester had had it's ups and downs, and unfortunately the downs were what he recalled first.  
He also had the feeling he wasn't making a good impression, and that worried him.  
He fingered the lanyard worriedly.  
An uncomfortable silence fell.  
"Well .... " Mrs. Henderson groped around, searching for words. Ironic, considering they were in a library.   
"I expect I'd better introduce you to Emma then."  
The insinuation was that she wished to wash her hands of him.  
Stop it, Paul, he told himself again.  
'Don't overthink' Mike had told him at the weekend over a pint.  
George had eyed him seriously only last night.  
"You're well capable of this, Paul. Don't put yourself down."

He straightened up, plastered on his brightest smile, and faced her.  
"That would be ace" he said, then winced. Maybe that was too enthusiastic?  
Stop it, Paul, he thought yet again.

The door into the archive room suddenly swung open and someone stumbled through with a handful of papers that appeared to be slipping from their grasp, a couple fluttering to the floor.  
It was a welcome distraction as they both turned to glance at the young man who swept up the escaping papers and dumped the whole lot on the nearest clean desk with a muttered expletive.  
Behind rounded glasses his eyes widened when he realised he wasn't on his own.  
They widened even more when they fell on Paul.  
Papers forgotten, his mouth dropped open.  
"Paul???? " He stepped forward. "Paul? It is, isn't it?"  
Paul took in the tall, dark-haired, bespectacled young man before him and the penny dropped.  
"Ivan? My god, it's been ..."  
" ... years, yeah. What happened to you? Last I heard you'd gone to uni."  
"Yeah, I did ... I went to Manchester. What about you?"  
"Went and did History, didn't I? Always liked the subject, if you remember. What did you do? No ... don't tell me. Let me guess. Music? English?"  
Paul's smile was genuine. "English. Don't think I could have done music ... not that good at it."  
"You were bloody awesome, mate. I still remember you ... dododododo ..." Ivan pretended to strum on a guitar. "So ... what you doing here then?"  
Paul suddenly remembered Mrs. Henderson, who was standing with an implacable expression on her face. He sobered up quickly.  
"Oh, I ... erm ... I'm coming here to work. Children's section, y' know."  
Judging by the expression on Mrs. Henderson's face, maybe he wasn't any more.  
He took another deep breath and tried to chill.  
"That's brill. It'll be great having you here. Like old times."  
"Well ... nice to know Paul will have a friend here, but if you'll excuse us, Ivan, we must get on." Mrs. Henderson's voice soon put a stop to any more ramblings, and Paul felt like a five year old again who'd been told off.  
Ivan, however, was not to be deterred. "Ah, come on, Millie, haven't seen this guy for years. Give us a break. What y' doing lunchtime?" He threw his enquiry in Paul's direction.  
Mrs. Henderson (Millie, he now knew) stepped back, surprisingly acquiescent.  
"I, er ... I don't know. I've got a packed lunch with me."  
"Packed lunch?" Ivan wrinkled his lips. "Boring! Let me take you to the pub ..."  
Millie stepped forward. "Ivan, I don't think .."  
"George did it for me."  
They spoke at the same time, and both glances fell on Paul.  
"What?"  
Paul thought of the foil wrapped packet that had been handed to him that morning, and a fierce burst of gratitude and the need to defend it rose in Paul's breast.  
"George made me lunch" he said simply.  
For a moment Millie was forgotten.  
Ivan gazed at him, eyebrows raised. "George? Not ... not skinny Harri? You don't mean?......"  
"Uh huh."  
Ivan smiled. "You two still friends after all this time?"  
"Yeah .. we ... we live together." He blushed, aware of how it sounded.  
"Well, bugger me with a brush. What's he doing then?"  
Paul licked his lips, aware of Mrs. Henderson (Millie in brackets in his head) watching him closely.  
"He works in a shop selling guitars and keyboards an' that."  
Ivan chuckled and shook his head. "Am I surprised? Seriously, thought you two might go somewhere with all that music making you used to do."  
Paul shrugged. "Money doesn't pay the bills."  
Even as he said it he could hear his father's voice, like an echo, saying those words.  
The emptiness. The void. A cold kitchen that used to be filled with warmth and bustle.  
Ivan suddenly sobered. "Hey, I'm sorry, y' know. About your mam. Real shame."  
Even now, all these years down the line, he still felt the pain. A gut churning wrench that began in hiss stomach and shot to the back of his eyes and lodged in his throat.  
Tears prickled and, annoyed, he turned away, trying to push the emotions back down to where they'd been firmly kept.  
"Thanks" he muttered, staring at a space somewhere in front of him.  
He could feel Mrs. Henderson's eyes on him, curious, and Ivan's, compassionate.  
The silence was uncomfortable.  
It was, thank heaven, broken by Mrs. Henderson. "Well, Paul ... " there seemed to be a little more warmth in her voice. Pity? Shit, he hated pity. "I'd better take you to meet Emma. There are no activities in the children's section until the afternoon, so you'll have time to bed in. Ivan, I expect Paul would like to meet up later. His lunchtime will be at twelve thirty. This way, Paul."  
She was brisk. No nonsense. Sweeping up the situation and moving on, and for that Paul was glad.  
Glad he had a decent job. He needed nothing to go wrong.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for such lovely comments. I'm still not sure where this is going but I'll update as often as I find inspiration.

John shimmied into the black apron that had a small fish embroidered on it with 'Brian's Place' lettered around it.   
He wondered if anyone got the joke.  
Place? Plaice?  
They didn't serve it anyway.  
The local fish and chip shop did though.

"So ... how are these 'patties' coming on then, Adrian?"  
Adrian looked up at the sound of John's voice, pushing a floppy swathe of blonde hair out of his eyes.  
Hmmm ... not very hygenic, John registered. He was sure chefs should wear hats or something.  
A smile from a mouthful of teeth greeted him. "Oh, hello, John. Coming on okay. Would you like to crush me some garlic? Just over there."  
Ugh. John hated that job. Stuck to his fingers.  
"Er, yeah, okay. If that's what it takes."  
He began peeling the bulbs, the strong smell drifting through his nostrils.  
"So, where d'you get the idea for these patties then?"  
Adrian paused, glancing across. "In one of my mother's home magazines. Sounded easy and ... well, just up our street. Brian loved the idea."  
Adrian had a gushing way of talking, as if everything was jolly hockey sticks.  
Liz and John often took him off behind his back.  
"Ah, right. And are they easy?"  
Adrian eyed the assembled tart bases he had in front of him. "I don't anticipate too many problems."  
"Good. That's good. Only just about fill a hollow tooth wouldn't they, though. Not exactly a stacking meal."  
Adrian sounded chiding. "People don't come here for a 'stacking meal', John. They come here for an experience."  
"Oh, experience. Right."  
Adrian glanced at him under his eyelashes.  
"You don't approve?"  
John shrugged. Watch your mouth, Lennon, he reminded himself.  
"I'm not here to offer opinions. Just doing a job."  
Adrian's glance remained on him a moment longer, assessing, then he turned back.  
"These should prove very popular" he muttered under his breath.  
John gritted his teeth and began pounding the garlic.

 

They entered the children's section of the library side by side and Paul could see a figure squatting down at a lower bookshelf, curly dark hair trailing down her back. This must be Emma. At the sound of their arrival she rose to her feet, turning, and Paul caught his breath. A dimpled, heart shaped face framed by long hair, twinkling dark eyes, rosy lips in a welcoming smile ... his stomach gave a flip. He felt her eyes scan over him quickly, and her smile grew wider.  
"Wow! You must be Paul .... hi, I'm Emma" and a tiny hand was thrust in his direction.  
Speechlessly he took hold of it.  
For a moment they gazed at one another, Mrs. Henderson forgotten.  
A discrete cough broke the spell.  
"Paul, Emma. Emma, Paul." She sounded flustered.  
"Well, I'll leave you two to get to know each other, shall I?"  
Emma's eyes had never left Paul's face, but her comment was sent in that direction.  
"Most certainly."

"Ah, the lovely Emma" said Ivan over a pint in the local (Paul discretely unwrapping his sandwiches, having refused to buy lunch. That would be a waste. A WASTE ... and George would be so disappointed.) "Get on okay, then, did you? Well .... " Ivan waved a hand, not waiting for a reply. "Stupid question. Of course you did."  
Paul was quiet, still taking in what had been an overwhelming morning, and mentally sorting it all into piles.  
He swallowed a bite of the cheese and salad sandwich. "Mmm ... she's nice."  
He sounded non-commital and Ivan paused to look closely at him.  
"Nice? That all you can say?"  
Paul glanced up, trying to balance the foil wrapping on his knee without getting crumbs everywhere.  
"Huh?"  
"It's just that ... most guys here go doolally over her."  
Yeah, that he understood. He'd been with her all morning, listening to her husky voice, watching the expressive hands, gazing into her bedroom eyes.  
He shook himself.  
"I'm not looking for a relationship" he mumbled.  
Ivan looked totally unimpressed.   
"You might not be. Ten to one she is. Every new guy that comes here to work she sinks her talons into him ... sheeek ... " he spread his fingers like claws. "No escape, Macca."  
Macca. He'd not been called that for a while, although he had been known as Mac at university. At least, to begin with. Till things took a downturn.  
Stop it, Paul.  
He squared his shoulders.  
"All the same, I'm not looking for a relationship" he repeated stubbornly.  
Ivan raised an eyebrow in disbelief, but tactfully changed the subject.  
"So ... tell me about Manchester? What was it like?"

"John, can you check the Chardonnay is chilled? It's down as a set lunch with the patties."  
Brian's voice sang out from behind the bar, and all John could see was the top of Brian's immaculately coiffed light brown hair.  
John put down the cutlery he'd been polishing and headed in the direction of the cellar.  
"If it's supposed to be chillin' should a' been in the fridge ages ago" he muttered to himself.  
Brian was getting edgy. He always did before the bar opened. John noticed that he had a habit of smoothing down his hair. Nervous anxiety.  
John swept up a handful of bottles from the cellar and stuck them in the fridge behind the bar.  
"There y' go, Bri. They're already quite cold. Won't take long. Probably not gonna be that busy today anyway."  
Brian looked up swiftly at John, anxiety written across his face.   
"Why? Why d'you say that?"  
John blinked, surprised. Maybe he shouldn't have said anything.  
"Well, it's ... it's Monday, innit." As if that was reason enough.  
Brian mouthed silently the words "Monday, Monday " as if seeking enlightenment.  
John shook his head in exasperation. "People just don't go out as much on a Monday, Bri. Friday's the day, innit ... 'cos it's nearly the weekend, and maybe Thursday 'cos it's nearly Friday, and maybe Wednesday 'cos, well, you're halfway there, and a Tuesday to celebrate the fact y' got through Monday, but .. just not Monday."  
Brian was mesmerised. How did John know all this?  
"So ... so ... the patties? Will they be a waste of time?"  
John pursed his lips, thinking.  
"Can y' freeze 'em?"  
Brian shook his head. He didn't know. Ten to one neither did Adrian.  
"Erm, not sure. Possibly not"  
John shrugged, and leaned conspiratorially on the bar.  
"Y' know what, Bri? Put today down to practice ... making the patties, that is. Sell what y' can, take home to your mam what y' can't, and push it as a special on Friday. The clientele will love 'em then."  
Brian gazed at John with adoring eyes.   
"You're so clever. You should have more of a hand in managing the bar. So ... so ... inspirational."  
Behind him, John heard Lizzie stifle a laugh by a cough.  
"Be happy to" said John.

Paul opened the front door into the flat he shared with George, noticing immediately the trail of kicked off Converse, a soggy coat (yes, it was still raining) draped on a radiator haphazardly, leaving gathering puddles on the wooden floor, and the sound of a guitar being played. Frustration at the mess was immediately swamped by the music as Paul's ears picked up a tune he didn't know ... nice chord progression ... hmm, interesting key switch ... he wouldn't have thought of doing that. His fingers gave a twitch, desperate to join George and put the day behind him. He shimmied out of his coat and hung it neatly on the hall pegs and moved towards the kitchen with his dripping umbrella with the intention of leaving it in the sink. As he passed quietly by the lounge they shared, the music stopped as George spotted him.  
"Hiya, Paul. How d'you get on?"  
A simple question, but there was genuine interest in George's voice, then the tall, lanky figure was behind him in the tiny galley kitchen.  
Paul pushed a damp fringe out of his eyes and smiled at his long time friend.  
"Okay. Yeah, okay."  
Beetley brows drew into a frown.  
"That all y' got to say? Been waiting for the last hour nearly to hear about your day. Come on ... shift over, I'll make you a cuppa and you can tell me all about it."  
Paul's heart sank. He hated ... hated with a passion ... discussing past events. He always just wanted to move on. Memories of arriving back from school, tie half undone round his neck, blazer hanging off him, and his mam ... waiting ...  
"How have you got on?" and having to go through his day, lesson by lesson, when all he really wanted to do was shoot off to his bedroom and read, or try to write down all the melodies he kept hearing in his head, or lose himself in a fantasy world, write his own book, his own poems ...  
"Paul?"  
George was looking anxiously at him.  
He gave himself a mental shake.  
"There's this girl ..."  
He saw George smirk.  
"No .... no, not like that, George. Honest. I'm working with her. Her name's Emma, but ... but ... "  
He wasn't sure how to put it into words. Her 'come on' had been overwhelming.  
George silently handed Paul a mug of tea and leaned against the counter, waiting.  
That was the good thing about George, Paul considered. He didn't rush.  
Paul took a sip of the hot liquid. There were so many events running through his mind. He tried to put some cohesion into them.  
"But ... what?" George prompted when Paul seemed to have drifted off into his own thoughts and reluctant to continue.  
Paul heaved a sigh and shook his head. "She's .. she's really ... sort of ... pushy."  
"Well, tell her to fuck off then. Politely, mind. Don't let her take over with the work."  
Not the work. No, not the work. He tried to explain to George, who obviously was finding it some big joke.  
"You mean she wants to get her hand down your trousers?"  
A smile twitched the corner of Paul's mouth. "Mmmm ... sort of."  
"Well ... do you good."  
Paul's eyes widened. "What?"  
"Well, could be a bit more fun than your right hand ... or your left, in your case."  
"Geeeooorrrgggee."  
George grinned.  
"Ah, come on, Paulie ... we all need a bit of release every now and then. So, what's wrong with her? Is she ugly?"  
Emma's face danced in Paul's vision.  
"No, she's not. She's really pretty."  
George shook his head. He didn't get it. He just didn't get it.  
"Well, if she's serving herself up on a plate ..."  
"No. That's it. I feel I'm the one that's being served up. As if I'm the next tasty meal. Ivan said .."  
"Ivan? Who's Ivan?"  
A big smile split Paul's face. "Well ... guess who else is working there .... "  
"Not .. not Ivy? ..."  
"Yup."  
"Well, bugger me! Haven't seen him for years."  
"He remembered you."  
"Really?" George's face lit up, chuffed that he was memorable to someone from their past.  
"Yeah. We went out for lunch together .. oh, thanks for the butty, by the way. I had it in the pub with a pint."  
"Was it okay?"  
"Yeah. Just what the doctor ordered. Anyway, Ivan's working in the archive section. Did a History degree, he tells me."  
George chewed a hangnail thoughtfully. "Seems everyone except me went to uni."  
Paul suddenly looked serious. "It's not worth that much, Geo. Lots of people go, get in debt, and don't do anything. Or struggle to get a job."  
George glanced under his lashes at Paul.  
"Not you, though."  
Paul blinked, confused. "What?"  
"I said, not you. You've got a job now, and a good one."  
Paul carefully placed his empty mug down on the counter.  
"Thanks to you pushing and shoving me."  
The conversation seemed to be getting heavy.  
George shot Paul a big smile, pulling them both back up.  
"Well, it's what friends are for, innit?"

John checked his appearance in the mirror. It was important to look casual ... effortlessly casual. As if he'd not tried, not one bit, it was how he fell out of bed, casual.  
He'd never been a smart guy anyway. Always preferred his jeans and t-shirts. But alongside Louis and his mates he looked ... stale. Boring. And John didn't like to be thought of as boring. He pulled a longer strand of auburn hair round from the side of his head and pulled it across his face. No! Now that did look stupid. He didn't understand how they wore their hair that way and got away with it.  
An amused voice sounded from behind him. "What y' doing, John?"  
Colour rose in his cheeks. He jutted his chin out stubbornly.  
"Just trying a different style."  
"Well, don't." Ringo's voice was level. "Be yourself."   
He shifted, not taking his eyes off John.  
"Goin' out with that loon again?"  
John bit his tongue. No sense in trying to defend Louis. As far as Ringo was concerned he was an idiot.  
"Yup." John maintained his stubborn tone.  
The sigh Ringo heaved could have been heard the other side of the Mersey.  
"Stay sober, eh?" he muttered as he turned away.

It took John forever to locate the bar where the band were playing, but the sheer noise blasting out from a tatty old bar signified their venue. Making his way down rickety stone steps into the basement club, John pushed his way through pulsating bodies, a strong smell of alcohol and something else he didn't want to think too closely about hit him. As did the volume.  
And there was Louis, leaping about like a frenzied monkey, skinny jeans sliding around his hips, long hair flying across his face as he executed yet another leap into the air and his guitar shrieked out a protesting, ear splitting chord. Of course, he wasn't really playing. Not ... playing, as such. Just producing noise. A few weeks ago John had brought Ringo to hear them, and Ringo had brought a friend of his ... someone who was into guitars, he'd explained to John. Someone who worked in a music shop not far from Ringo's hairdressing business. Someone whose hair he occasionally cut.  
"This is George" Ringo had introduced them outside the club. "He plays guitar. Interested to have a listen. George, this is John."  
Once inside the club it had been impossible to have a conversation. They'd drank a few beers though, while watching the gyrating figures.  
It had been pretty obvious, from George's expression, what he thought, as his brows drew closer together and his eyes winced painfully with each shriek.  
George had left before to long, mouthing a "Bye" and offering a handshake.  
Next day, John had got the lowdown.  
"George says they're not playing" Ringo had said blandly, shoving bread into the toaster.  
John looked up in surprise. "What?"  
Ringo repeated the statement, and enlarged on it. He obviously had the whole conversation off by heart.  
"George says they're not really playing because, a) they're not producing or forming recognised chords and b) with all that jumping about they're just hitting the strings wherever their fingers happen to fall. What they are producing is noise."  
Ringo looked challengingly at John, who sat there, open-mouthed.  
Finally, John responded in true Lennon style.   
"Well .... fuck George, then."  
Ringo's mouth twitched. "No thanks. I don't bat that way. Neither does he."  
John simmered. "Well, what the fuck does he know about music?"  
Ringo calmly buttered the toast that had popped up.  
"Quite a lot, actually. He's a pretty good lead guitarist and often stands in as a session musician with local bands."  
"Oh!" John couldn't find a comeback this time. "Oh, right."  
Ringo looked at him sympathetically.  
"George used to play with a friend of his. They did a lot of gigs, wrote their own stuff, but then his friend went to uni and .. well, it stopped. George said he couldn't find anyone else he liked as much to play with, though he did try. He's always got his eye out for any opportunity. It's probably why he wanted to come and see your band."  
'Your band'. A warm feeling grew.   
"Oh, right" John repeated.  
He liked playing guitar too. Knew he wasn't that good at it, but he'd laboured to teach himself chords.  
And a tiny, niggling part of him reckoned Ringo's friend was right. He'd never yet seen them produce a recognisable chord.  
Noise, though ... oh yeah, that they could produce.

It wasn't raining.  
Obviously some weather deity had decided that Liverpool had had more than it's fair share yesterday.  
The bus wasn't crowded either.  
John found himself a comfortable window seat by the heater and got out his book.  
This wasn't a book designed to put other people off talking to him.  
This was his favourite book, worn, pages brown with wear, spine broken.  
He could have told anyone the story off by heart.  
He gave a jump of joy each time Alice leapt down the rabbit hole.

The bus stopped and started, a shuffling of passengers, a murmur of conversation.  
"Better than yesterday, eh?"  
Footsteps tapping down the aisle, a mix of perfumes.  
Someone paused at the empty seat next to John, and John glanced up.  
Bugger. It was Mr. Camel Coat, still with a bright smile plastered on his face.  
John glared.  
He didn't mean to.  
He really didn't mean to.  
It was just ... he'd reached one of his favourite parts ... and he really didn't want to be disturbed.  
The smile faltered.   
A little sigh.  
And Mr. Camel Coat moved further down the bus to find another seat.

So why did John feel slightly disappointed?


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short chapter. Inspiration happened to strike. Hope you enjoy.

Paul flopped onto his bed, letting his whole body weight fall. The bed bounced slightly with the impact, and he sank into it's feather softness, releasing a sigh and crossing his stockinged feet. He'd reached the end of his first two weeks and it had been exhausting. No one could have warned him how exhausting it would be. Crossing his arms behind his head and staring up at the bland, white painted ceiling, he mused on events. His head was full of the children he met, most of them regulars, as he took the story time groups. He'd done well there. He knew he had. He'd seen the glint of approval in Mrs. Henderson's (Millie's) eye. He was good at reading aloud, at bringing words to life. It had always been a forte of his.

Shame he couldn't act.  
It had been an assumption, both at school and at university, that since he was so good at verbally dramatising a story, he would be equally good at acting. But for all his confidence there was a tiny part of him that was self-conscious ... that couldn't quite 'let go' enough to really pull a part off. He'd been pushed into joining an amateur dramatic group at uni, and he still cringed when he recalled the sidelong glances at his wooden performance.  
'You could play Macbeth' some of the students enthused, hearing him read the part.  
In the end he'd played King Duncan. A few words then gone.

But reading to children ... well, that was different. He loved to hear their delighted squeals when he pretended to be a tiger in the dark, or changed his voice completely to be a princess locked up in a tower. And the parents liked him too, that he knew. They would all gather round him, seated on cushions, hugging their off-spring who would, occasionally, escape their clutches to go and clamber over the Pied Piper who drew them in, settling in his lap, tugging his hair, objecting when they were hauled off by their mother or father. And Paul would never miss a beat in the story.

He'd loved that part of his job.  
But Emma ... well ...  
That was the reason for his exhaustion.  
She was persistent. Unbelievably persistent.  
They were the entertainment for most of the staff, watching the pulling and pushing that was going on.  
Ivan's eyes had twinkled behind his black frames.  
"You're holding out there, Macca. She's usually got them after the first couple of days. Two weeks ... wow, a record. There's bets going round, y' know."  
Yup, he knew. He'd heard the sniggers, the murmured comments. They weren't offensive ... oh, no ... the staff there were wonderful and he got on well with them. They were just finding it all very amusing. 

Paul wasn't sure he wanted to be the source of that amusement.

The flat door opened and the sound of shoes being kicked off as they hit the skirting board echoed in the small hall.  
"I'm home" called George's voice with far too much enthusiasm.  
Next second Paul's bedroom door was flung open with equal vigour.  
Paul's eyes shot open though he wasn't aware he'd even closed them.  
"Fuckin' hell, don't knock, will you, Harri!"  
George paused on the threshold, comically sweeping the interior of the room with searching eyes.  
"What? You got a girl in here then?"  
Paul's lips tightened imperceptibly.  
"Yes, actually. There's three hidden under my bed."  
The sarcasm was lost on George who proceeded to plonk himself down on the side of Paul's bed and survey his recumbent friend, a smile on his face but concern in the dark eyes.  
Paul sighed internally.  
He wished George wouldn't look so worried about him all the time. It wasn't as if he couldn't handle himself.  
"How was work then?"  
Paul submitted graciously. He obviously wasn't going to be left alone. He rolled over onto his side, a tiny part of his subconscious mind enjoying the comfort his bed provided. Thoughts of going to live under his duvet with a pile of books, his guitar and a stash of beer and crisps entered his mind. Sounded bliss. Did people ever do things like that?  
"Okay" he mumbled.  
George frowned.  
Paul groaned.  
George wanted more.  
"It was okay, okay? Cool. Good. Ace. Kids were great. Everyone's lovely. Now, shall you put the kettle on or shall I?"  
George blinked at the sudden outburst and drew back.  
"I'm only asking."  
Guilt swamped Paul and he threw his hands over his face, scrubbing tired eyes.  
"Yeah, sorry, sorry, I know. It's all good, George, ta. Thanks for asking."  
"And Emma?"  
This time Paul groaned aloud.  
An amused smile spread across George's face.  
"Dunno why you don't just bring her back here and fuck her. Get it over with, like."  
"No, thank you."  
Even as he spoke the words Paul had a niggling feeling that that is what would probably happen.  
Everyone was waiting for him to succumb.

"How's work going?"  
John almost dropped the mug of tea he'd been holding. He'd never heard Ringo come in.  
He blinked bemusedly, gathering his scattered thoughts from the four winds.  
Goodbye Alice, goodbye Cheshire Cat, goodbye everyone ... hello Adrian, hello Brian ....  
"Yeah, good, s'good."  
Ringo paused dramatically, hand on hip, rings flashing.  
"That it? Just ... good?"  
John's lips curved in a smile.  
"Yeah, just ... good. It's okay, y' know? Brian's a sweet guy. No business sense, mind you. Between him and Adrian I don't know how the place manages to pay. I mean ... " John shifted his position, crossing one jean clad leg over another " ... it's like they have these random thoughts and act on 'em and somehow it works. Neither of 'em know what they're doing though."  
"Have they .. erm ... got together yet?" Ringo raised a quizzical eyebrow, insinuating.  
John snorted. "Nah ... they just dance round each other like a coupla fairies. Blushin' everytime they catch one another's eyes."  
Ringo sat down near to John.  
"Not tried chattin' you up yet, then?"  
John didn't answer straightaway. Brian was always shooting covert glances at him. And he liked the fella. He really did. Just ... didn't fancy him. Not in that way.  
"Wouldn't be professional, would it?" John countered, not fully answering Ringo's question.  
He scratched his head, suddenly conscious of the much longer strands of hair between his fingers. Just lately he'd been tying it in a low ponytail when working at the bar. Maybe he ought to get it cut. Maybe he was too old for all this.  
"Cut it for you tonight if you like."  
Bloody hell! Had Ringo read his mind?  
He shifted, uncomfortable.  
"Yeah, well, thanks for the offer, Rings, but I'm off out tonight. Friday an' all that, y'know."  
"You're always out, John. Always. Where you goin' then?"  
"Ah, the band are playing at The Jive. Near Parsons Green."  
"The Jive? Can't say I've ever heard of it. It doesn't sound like a heavy metal venue."  
"Nah, don't think it is. The band that was gonna play has had to cancel, so they've been brought in at short notice."  
There was a barely suppressed snort of laughter from Ringo before he clamped his mouth shut.  
He changed it to a cough. "Gonna be in for a bit of a surprise, aren't they, then?" he concluded.  
John shifted again. Ringo had a nasty habit of hitting near the truth far too often.  
He attempted an adult response.  
"Well, I can't be too late home anyway. I'm working tomorrow."  
"Tomorrow? Saturday? I've never known you work a Saturday yet. I thought the bar dealt mainly with lunch-time city workers?"  
"Well ... yeah, it does. But they've got a little party in tomorrow. Somebodies booked a few tables for a birthday bash. All hands to the plough, so to speak."

 

"A drink?"  
George quirked an amused eyebrow.  
"Yeah. Y'know, it's what friends do. Go out together for a drink. We could go to the local."  
Paul rolled back over on his bed, considering. He didn't want to disappoint George, but he was tired .... and he had things to do.  
Ring his dad for one.  
Consider how he was going to handle tomorrow.  
He scratched his nose absent-mindedly.  
"Well ... see ... thing is, George, I'm working tomorrow."  
"Working?" George sounded puzzled, and sat down abruptly on Paul's bed again. "On a Saturday? I thought you were purely a Monday to Friday job? What y' doing?"

 

Paul had seen the hesitation in Mrs. Henderson's (Millie's) eyes when she asked him.  
A trial run, she told him.  
No pressure.  
He didn't have to do it.  
It was something she did on a Saturday morning.  
But she'd been told (Ivan, Paul guessed ... correctly, as it turned out) that Paul could play guitar and sing.  
It would make such a difference.  
There was a plea in her voice, and Paul gave in.  
He was too soft. He knew he was. Such a people pleaser.  
So ....

"Taking an inter-active reading group."  
Now George's eyebrows shot up, two thick hairy caterpillars disappearing under a long fringe.  
"What the fuck's that?"  
Paul chuckled.  
"Basically, the kids get involved. Act things out. Sing."  
George nodded. Now he got it.  
Now he got why they wanted Paul.  
"And you're the musician?"  
"Uh huh."  
George reached forward and poked him in the stomach.  
"Glad someone's noticed your talent."  
Defending his nether regions from any more prods, Paul glanced up at George.  
"They've never heard me yet. Dunno what they're going on."  
'Ivan, I suspect' thought Paul to himself.  
"Ivy, I guess" said George.

 

John just about caught the bus, leaping onto the platform at the last moment.  
"City Centre" he informed, waving his bus pass at the driver who was blinking bemusedly at John's sudden arrival.  
The bus was quieter than in the week he noticed straight away. Well, he was an hour later travelling in. Brian had asked for him to be there for ten thirty rather than the usual nine. As John's eyes roved over the vacant seats, deciding where to sit, he also registered the fact that these were different passengers, and it suddenly struck him how he'd got used to the usual rabble he shared his morning journey with. Like Mrs. Ginormous and Mr. Missing teeth. There was more of a serenity to the few passengers as well, as if they were there because they wanted to be there rather than had to be. He made his wobbly way to a window seat, collapsed onto it with a sigh, and drew his paperback from his pocket. Although he opened it at the bookmark he didn't start reading straight away. Today different things caught his eye. The passengers for one. What they were wearing. Then the weather ... it was actually quite sunny out. A weak sun, but there nonetheless. He relaxed back into the seat and sighed, feeling content. Not that the night before had been very successful ... the audience that had turned up didn't seem to appreciate Louis' kind of music. So ... the night had finished early, but the upside of that for John was that he got Louis to himself for the rest of the night, even if it meant listening to him whinge and whine about how the band were not 'appreciated' while they both got slowly drunk.

The bus journey seemed so much quicker than usual. Probably because less people got on. Obviously a Saturday morning lie-in was in order. John's eyes flicked down to the book resting on his knees and he began reading. He glanced up when someone got on with a guitar on their back. Made him think of Louis, and the time they'd spent together. A dreamy smile crossed John's face. He was a sweet lad, really. Just a bit ... wayward. And that was what appealed. He watched with half an eye as the dark haired young man carefully placed his guitar in it's gig bag in the luggage area. Hmmm ... someone who obviously cared about their instrument. The bus gently started off again, and John stretched his legs out in front of him, feeling particularly beneficent to the world at large.

Then the young man turned to make his way down the bus, and John blinked, surprised.   
It was Mr. Camel Coat.  
Except ... no camel coat this morning.  
No tie, no shirt, no lap top.  
Mile long legs (John couldn't help but notice them!) clad in denim jeans, a black jumper with a black leather jacket over it.  
And a scarf. It looked a special scarf. Black on one side, purple on the other with gold stripes. Looked like a university one. The whole effect was very ... preppy. John licked his lips. He liked it.

'Dress casual, Paul. As long as you look presentable' Mrs. Henderson (Millie) had informed him. Though she was fairly certain he wasn't the kind to suddenly turn up with green hair and rude logos on t-shirts. He'd deliberated for ages before he'd landed on his current outfit. Now he was worrying. Was this too casual? Should he have put a tie on? Trousers, not jeans?

Feeling eyes on him, Paul glanced up, and blinked, surprised.  
It was Mr. Paperback Man.  
He hadn't expected to see anyone he knew on the bus on a Saturday. Particularly as it was a random time. What a coincidence.  
He smiled.  
And it was a natural smile.   
For a moment they were the only two on the bus.

John blinked, surprised.  
What a smile.  
It was like the sun coming out after rain.  
The whole of Mr. Camel Coat's face lit up, eyes crinkling at the corners.  
Prompted, John smiled back.

Paul blinked, surprised, and his smile grew.  
He nodded to John and ... wary of that first meeting when he'd landed on John's lap ... carefully ... very carefully ... slid into the empty seat in front of John, setting the bag of books he carried on his lap.

John stared at the dark hair in front of him, a small section pushed up by the scarf. It looked soft, and his fingers itched to touch it, to straighten the rumpled bit.  
Fuck! What was he thinking?  
He had Louis.  
This was an unknown guy.  
And probably straight at that.

Paul took the books out of his bag and glanced at them. Ones like 'The wheels on the Bus' he knew like the back of his hand. That would be an easy one to get them started on. But he fancied trying some different ones. He could easily put a tune to some of these rhyming stories. Easily.

He drifted off into his own world, as he often did when thinking tunes up. Notes dancing in his head. It took a moment for him to register that he could feel breath on the back of his neck. Hot breath. And ... something touched his hair.

He whipped round quickly, almost jarring his neck.  
The guy behind him was leaning near to the back of his seat.  
Very near.  
So ... close ... almost as if to touch him.  
Paul glared at him, then peered more closely.  
Amber eyes behind black-framed glasses were staring straight ahead, as if looking through Paul. Not seeing him.   
So intent were they that Paul turned back, looking in the same direction, wondering what the guy ... Mr. Paperback Man ... was looking at.  
Paul could see nothing of interest.  
He turned back but, although the guy had exactly the same stance and glassy stare, he didn't seem to be as near to the back of Paul's seat as Paul had thought.  
With a slight shrug, Paul turned back to the books on his lap. Must have been his imagination.

With a slight sigh, John relaxed back against his seat.

Fuck!!

What on earth had made him do that?


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos and comments. And I mean that!! Just moving slowly on ... writing as and when I have an idea. It's not dramatic. There's not much action. I don't even know if it's a slow burn because my head hasn't got that far yet. Enjoy xxxx

John couldn't believe .... just could not believe ... he'd done that.  
A tiny trickle of sweat made it's way down his back.  
Fuck!  
He must have flipped his mind or something.  
He stared down at his fingers which were trembling.  
What on earth had possessed him?

Paul was feeling rather freaked out.  
He was sure the guy behind him had touched his hair.  
Mr. Paperback Man.  
He'd been directly behind Paul when he'd whipped round.  
Eyes glassy. Unmoving.  
Maybe he was a pervert?  
Paul shook himself.  
Don't be so stupid.  
You see him every morning in the week.  
There's never any weird incidents occur.  
Must have been his imagination.

Paul was overwhelmingly aware of the man behind him though.  
And John was overwhelmingly aware of the man in front of him.

He didn't dare move. He hardly dared breathe. He couldn't trust himself. He might do it again.  
Rigidly John remained.  
Eyes ahead.  
Don't look at him.  
Not that soft dark hair ... no ... definitely not that.

Paul shuffled the books on his lap.  
He was nervous .... his hands were shaking slightly.  
It was unnerving ... he wanted to turn around and check.  
No. No, don't do that Paul.  
But fuck! ... the urge to do so was almost irresistible.  
Feeling completely unsettled, Paul tried to concentrate on the words in front of him.  
But all he was conscious of was the man behind him.

John looked down at his paperback.  
He couldn't even remember what it was about now.  
All he was conscious of was the man in front of him.

Paul almost missed his stop.  
He shot to his feet, clutching onto the books, trying to stuff them back into the bag.  
He'd felt organised when he left the house, now he felt .... disorganised. Shaken.  
He made his way swiftly down the aisle, swinging from one pole to another, stopping to retrieve his guitar.

He couldn't help it. He had to do it.  
He glanced over at Mr. Paperback Man.  
But the guy was still sitting, staring unseeing at the space in front of him.  
Paul shook his head.  
It must have been his imagination.

He was getting off. So soon.  
Yet ... fuck .... nearly John's stop too.  
Eyes ahead. Don't look. Don't move.  
Don't make contact.  
Pretend like it had never happened.

John mentally as well as physically gave himself a shake, wiping his glasses, popping them back on.  
Pretend it had never happened.  
Brian was waiting for him as he stepped through the door, anxious, wringing his hands, not looking his normal composed self.  
"John" he wailed "Adrian's ill."

It was probably what John needed. A reason to think about something else, takeover in an emergency. And he threw himself wholeheartedly into it.  
Trying to push out of his head what he'd done.  
The feel of that soft hair.  
The smell, cologne and musk, a male scent, and the gorgeous fucker it belonged to ... no ... stop .... what was he thinking?  
Food. Concentrate. Switch brain on.

"We were going to do those patties. John, John, do you know how to do those patties?"  
Patties?  
For Christ sake, get a hold of yourself.  
"Er .... No?"  
Ever more panic crossed Brian's face.  
"Oh, fuck, oh, shit, what are we going to do?"  
Never had John heard such language cross Brian's lips before.  
With a huge effort he pulled his mind away from Mr. Camel Coat.  
And to being the saviour of the world .... well, Brian's Place.

 

Paul's equilibrium was definitely shaken.  
He could still feel a feather light touch on the back of his head, and hot breath on the part of his neck that the scarf had slipped from.  
So tied up was he in these feelings he didn't even hear Tom's morning greeting from the reception desk.  
Like a man in a trance he made his way to the children's area.

"Paul! I'm so glad you've come."  
Mrs. Henderson's (Millie's) voice tugged him from his meandering thoughts.  
He slapped on his well practised smile that showed the world all was well, even if it wasn't.  
It was a smile that never worked on George. Always sent him into alert mode.  
"Er, yeah ... " he stammered. Wasn't he supposed to? Had it been optional?   
Had he just fucked up?  
"Wonderful. Wonderful. Look ...."  
She took Paul by the wrist to tow him along, and he shivered. A female's touch. It had been a long time .......  
"I've thrown these cushions and bean bags round so that everyone can be comfy and at the same level. Are you okay sitting on a floor to play?"  
"Uh ... huh ... "  
His thoughts were wading through mud and he felt rather than saw the sidelong glance at him.  
From somewhere he slapped that brilliant smile back on and said "Absolutely!"

"You can't do patties??? You can't ... oh God, oh God, oh God ...."  
Brian began unravelling in front of John.  
"Hey. Hey up! I might not be able to do them but I'm sure I can do something arty that you can charge a fortune for."  
Brian latched desperately onto those words, not sure whether to be offended or relieved.  
He looked hopefully at John.  
"Really?" he asked pitifully.  
John gave a firm nod, keeping his fingers crossed.  
"Really."

An hour later and John had cut the crusts off ordinary sliced bread, drizzled olive oil and garlic over them, baked them in an oven till golden brown, spread tomato puree, sliced mozzarella and herbs, popped them back in to melt, arranged them on a plate, scattered olives and rocket leaves and tiny cherry tomatoes over the whole lot (just for effect) and presented the platter to Brian, whose face had lit up like Blackpool illuminations.  
"It's ... it's .... it's .... a miracle. Amazing. Awesome. Absolutely stunning."  
John went pink with pleasure but sarcastically said "Aye, enough of the alliteration. Is this enough? Or d'you want more?"  
Really Brian had no idea.  
John shook his head.  
"Look, let's just pop some cheese and biscuits out as well, chuck some fresh strawberries round, and shove extra prosecco on the table. If everyone gets bladdered, no one'll notice anything else."  
At this moment in time, if John had told Brian to jump in the Mersey to rescue the situation, he would have done so.  
"Yes, yes .... extra prosecco ... yes ... right. Quite right."

All in all, it was successful, and Brian was profoundly grateful and indebted to John.  
"Take Monday off" he said, magnaminously waving his arms around. "It's always a quiet day. Yes, quiet. I'll still pay you. So grateful. So very grateful."  
Take Monday off?  
John wasn't sure if he wanted to.  
It meant he wouldn't see Mr. Camel Coat.  
Then again .... maybe that was for the better.

 

Paul settled himself on a cushion, nestling the guitar across his thighs, and launched into 'The Wheels on the Bus' with Millie (yes, she'd insisted he call her Millie) leading the children in the actions. There was a buzz of excitement. To have someone who could play ... really PLAY ... the children bounced and sang, and even when Paul had a couple trying to clamber into his lap he never missed a note. Seeing the confidence the young man exuded ... something Millie hadn't experienced before from him ... she slowly withdrew and left it to Paul to lead the session. For the children the highlight was Paul setting a melody to 'We're going on a Bear Hunt'. The children waded through water and swished through grass, excitement building with every verse. Glancing round, Millie realised that they had gathered quite an audience. People had gathered at the periphery, clutching their library books, smiles on their faces. She gave a satisfied sigh. She'd felt sure this young man had more to offer than they'd yet seen.   
Shame about Emma.  
Slight problem there.  
Ah well.

"How did it go?" asked George when he arrived home that evening.  
It was a stupid question .... George knew from Paul's flushed face and the vibes he was giving off that it had gone well.  
Paul nodded at George, pushing a mop of unruly dark hair out of his eyes.  
"Good. Good, yeah, ta."  
George slung his coat over a chair and plonked down next to Paul.  
"Tell me about it" he demanded.  
There was none of the usual reluctance. Paul was happy to spill the beans and babbled away nonstop. George hid a smile. This was the Paul he knew and loved.  
When he could finally get a word in as Paul paused for breath, he blurted out "I've got a surprise for us."  
Momentary panic showed in Paul's eyes .... surprise? .... what if it was something he didn't want .... or ...  
"I've booked us a table at the Italian round the corner. Thought it might be good to celebrate."  
A small frown furrowed Paul's brow. "Celebrate? Celebrate ... what?"  
George nudged him with his bony elbow. "Your job. We haven't celebrated yet."  
"But ... but .... it's just a job, George."  
"It's a proper job, Paul. Better than working in a paper shop from dawn till dusk. Better pay, too."  
Paul cringed. "Yeah, well ...."  
"Come on. You'll enjoy it."  
"Hmmm ...."  
"Paul?"  
There was a small sigh. "Yeah. Yeah, okay."  
George lit up. "Great. Brill."

He couldn't believe Paul had agreed. It was so hard to budge his friend from out of the flat once he was in. And his room .... given the chance, Paul would hide away in there just playing his guitar for hours. I mean ... George loved music. He'd reckon he loved it as much as Paul ... hell, he even worked in it ... but Paul had this endless patience when it came to working things out, writing songs, perfecting melodies. George thought privately to himself that Paul really should have gone in for doing that for a living, not English. But ... well ... he could still recall the devastation that occurred after the death of Paul's mother. How lost the family had been. Paul's father had done his best at keeping them together, keeping the boys focused on school work. There were expectations. Mary had had high expectations and Jim felt he should respect them and try to maintain them. But looking after two teenage boys wasn't easy ... neither was the lack of money. Jim was only too aware of Paul's love for music, and his talent, but he'd had to squash it down. A living had to be earned. Paul was bright. Good at English. Teaching, Jim thought. A steady job. And so off to uni Paul had gone.  
But the best laid plans of mice and men .......

George nudged Paul again.   
"Booked for seven thirty. I'm paying."  
Paul stirred. "No. No, don't be stupid."  
George's face became stern.  
"My treat. Now shut up."

 

"How did it go?"  
John glanced up from the book he was reading.  
"Huh??"  
Ringo sighed as he took his jacket off.  
"The ... er ... party, whatever. Brian's Place?"  
"Oh, that. Good. Good, yeah, ta."  
Inwardly John was chuffed. Chuffed that he'd been able to rescue the situation   
Ringo plonked himself down by John and surveyed his friend intently.  
"Tell me" he demanded.  
Usually John was very reticent, but not tonight. He described in great detail what he'd done.  
"Where d'you get that idea from?" Ringo enquired when John had finished explaining.  
John looked down at his book and muttered something.  
Ringo quirked an eyebrow.  
"What?"  
John grinned.  
"The magazines in your salon."  
A slow smile spread across Ringo's face.  
"Ah! I had me suspicions you were reading them. Caught you out."  
"Well, not much else to do when I'm stuck there waiting for you."  
"The only reason you were stuck, son, is you forgot your house keys.So ... what you up to tonight then?"  
John frowned. He should have been out with Louis at yet another gig, but ....  
"I .. er ... I dunno."  
Ringo hid his surprise at John's lack of direction.  
"Not out with Louis? With the band?"  
John felt his jeans pocket where his phone lodged.  
"He was gonna text me with where they were gonna be, but I've not heard from him."  
John's frown was one of genuine confusion.  
Louis had said he'd text him.  
He hadn't.  
Ringo privately thought that was very rude and to be expected of someone like Louis, but he didn't say so to John.  
Instead, he said "In that case, fancy going for a drink? Nice way to end a Saturday, don't you think?"  
John felt tugged.  
Louis might text him.  
Expect him.  
But ... then again ....  
He flashed a smile at Ringo.  
"Be delighted to, old chap."

Paul slipped his leather jacket back on and checked his hair in the hallway mirror while he waited for George to get changed. Although he hadn't admitted as such to his friend he was excited to be going out. To doing something normal, knowing he had spending money in his account. He flicked an errant piece of hair into place and caught sight of George hovering behind him, a knowing grin on his face.  
"What?" said Paul, hiding a smile.  
He never could fool George.  
"Looking forward to going, aren't you?"  
Smug bastard!  
"Maybe ...." Paul countered, reluctant to give George the benefit of being right.  
George wasn't offended. He knew Paul didn't easily display his feelings. It would be a rare occasion when he opened up.

"Where we going then?" John enquired, surprised when Ringo ordered a taxi. "Thought it was just a drink? At the local?"  
Ringo shrugged his jacket on and automatically tweaked a piece of his floppy brown hair.  
"Well ..." he replied, never taking his eyes off the mirror " .... it's so rare I ever get to go out with you nowadays I thought we'd do something different. There's this blues bar in Aigburth not long opened. It's on the main road. Supposed ... " he paused to tweak another piece of hair " ... to be quite good. So my friend George tells me. Y' know, the guy who works in the music shop."  
No, John didn't know, but the idea of going somewhere different was enticing.  
"Ah, right."  
John folded his arms and leaned on the wall, watching Ringo, who turned and flashed him a brilliant smile.  
"Okay with you?"  
John returned the smile.   
"Lead on, sailor."

The late February air held a touch of spring in it. Faint, but there. Teasing.  
George and Paul walked companiably side by side, occasionally, accidentally, bumping shoulders and giving small smiles at one another.  
There's had been a long, if slightly interrupted, friendship, and words were not needed.  
Paul pushed away any faint feeling that George was still watching out for him, even though he knew the younger man was.  
He now had a job. A good job. One his dad approved of. He had some ... not yet much ... but some .... money in his account. He could hold his head up.  
The future was his to take hold of and make something of. So what if Emma was a thorn in his side. Maybe he should do what George suggested? He gnawed the inside of his lip, unsure. A relationship with a female? However fleeting? Could he still do that? He was unaware that his feet slowed down as his thoughts grew until a bump on his side from George dragged him back.  
"Overthinking again, McCartney?" was whispered into his ear.  
It was meant gently, and George's dark eyes were twinkling at him.  
He couldn't be offended.  
"Maybe ..." he murmured.  
George cocked an eyebrow.  
"Well ... stop it."

 

The Italian restaurant had twinkling coloured fairy lights outside, and an appetising smell drifted out.  
The two young men licked their lips, anticipating.  
Paul tilted his head, glancing over the road, hearing faintly on the air some music.  
He couldn't quite tell where it was coming from.  
On the other side of the road another couple of young men were walking, their laughter and chatter ringing out on the evening air.

Paul's eyes narrowed. Something was familiar.  
A tug, like an invisible string, caused him to pause and look closer.  
At the same time the guy with the auburn hair glanced over and their eyes met.

The moment was infinitesimal.  
Blink, and it was gone.

John's footsteps halted abruptly, catching Ringo by surprise.  
"John? What ? ..."  
John blinked. His eyesight was never that good and his glasses were slightly steamed from the brisk walk they'd done when the taxi had dropped them in the wrong place.

"I thought ..." he stared at where the dark-haired man had been only a second ago.  
He shrugged.   
"Thought I saw someone I knew" he mumbled.  
Ringo glanced at him curiously.   
It was as if John had halted. Everything about him had stopped.

"Paul?"  
Paul's footsteps had slowed at the entrance, eyes craning to look back over the road.  
"Paul, mate?"  
Paul flipped back, bright smile in place.  
"Sorry, thought I saw someone I knew."


	6. Chapter 6

It was an unseasonably warm day for late February, and Paul felt light-hearted with the promise of spring, a successful Saturday at the library behind him, and giddy with the feeling that he'd probably (possibly? maybe? definitely?) impressed Mrs. Henderson. Millie. He swung onto the bus, his eyes flickering over the familiar passengers who boarded the 8.20 destined for the City Centre. There was Mr. Missing Teeth sitting next to the big lady, and there was the skinny student who always wore his dark blue hoody and had his eyes glued to a very serious looking medical book. And ... and ... Paul continued looking ... no sign of Mr. Paperback Man. He narrowed his eyes, searching more thoroughly for that familiar figure. Someone gave him a nudge in the back and he moved further on down the bus, realising with embarrassment that he'd held up the queue behind him.

"Looking for someone, son?" asked Mr. Missing Teeth with a wide toothless grin as Paul's progress down the bus took him next to the man's seat.   
"I .. er ... no .. well ... uhm ..."  
Paul kicked himself mentally.   
"No ... not really." Phew. A concise sentence.  
"Ah, right. Well, have a good day."

Where was he? He must be here somewhere. He'd been on this bus on each and every occasion at the same time. Always.  
Paul was disturbed. He had a thing about patterns. A bit of a fixation ... yes, okay, he knew that. That if he did this, such and such a thing would happen, and if he didn't do it, well, something might go wrong. It caused amusement to George and frustration to Paul that this habit of his occasionally caused him to be late, because he had to ... well ... he just had to. Just in case. Ergo ... if Mr. Paperback Man wasn't here, something might go wrong with his day. Then again ... at least he wouldn't have to worry about being ... touched. Breathed on. If he shut his eyes he could still feel that feather light touch on his hair, the breath that ghosted across his ....  
"Oy, muppet, you asleep or what?"  
The voice pierced Paul's reverie, and he started, blinking owlishly at a guy who was peering suspiciously at him.  
"Move on down the bus can ye? We're a bit crowded up here, like."  
"Oh, yes, yes, of course. Sorry. Erm ... yeah ... sorry."  
Not a good start.  
It had to be Mr. Paperback Man's fault.  
Just had to.

 

John still got up at the same time. Made himself his usual mug of tea. Picked up his book, put it down, picked it up again.  
Monday off.  
It didn't feel right.  
Not to be catching that bus.  
Not to be seeing ...  
Stupid.  
He huffed and slung the book down impatiently.  
He didn't even know the guy, and he was still embarrassed when he thought of what he'd done.

"So, what y' gonna do today then?" asked Ringo, scratching at his bed head.  
A smile of amusement touched John's face. For someone who was a hairdresser, Ringo could certainly do hair-don'ts.  
"Dunno" John said, retrieving his book from off the floor.  
Ringo raised an eyebrow, questioning why the book should be there, but it was too much effort to enquire, really.  
John, no doubt, had his reason.  
"What d'you do on Mondays when I'm at work?"  
Ringo gave another scratch and yawned widely.  
"Sleep. Eat. Have another sleep. Maybe go and see me mam."  
"Ah" John nodded. "Right."  
Ringo grinned. "Yeah, not very exciting, is it. But ... y'know. Traditionally it is hairdressers day off, Monday, like. Y'd be hard pushed to find one open."  
"Ah" John said again. "Right."  
"Well, if you're off and I'm off, we could do something. Together, that is. If you want." Ringo shifted his position on the kitchen stool. Really, whoever had designed these had never tried sitting on one. Bloody uncomfortable.  
John's attention was caught. "Oh, aye? Like?"  
Ringo shrugged. He'd come up with the idea of doing something. Did he have to come up with another?  
"Well ... I dunno ..." he said lamely. "You suggest."  
John slumped again.  
God, who would have thought that the routine of going to work every morning meant that much to him.  
If he thought about it, he didn't really have much going in his life.  
Apart from going to the bar with Ringo Saturday night .... yeah, that was good ... the music ... the beer ... his thoughts wandered. That guy over the road ... there had been something familiar ...

"Like, the flicks, maybe?"  
Ringo's voice disrupted his wanderings.   
The flicks?  
"Why, what's on?"  
"Er ... dunno ... there's that follow up to the Magical Creatures one ... what's it called? Grind ... something ... crimes, is it?"  
There was flicker of interest. "Oh, yeah?"  
Creatures. Little furry things ... or not, maybe. But he liked animals ... particularly cats. He reckoned he could sympathise with Hagrid.  
Ringo was already scrolling through his phone, checking what, where and when.  
"There's a showing at the Cineworld at the retail park in Speke at 1.20. We could go and see that and go and have a pizza after."  
"Wow, the height of fast living."  
Ringo frowned, the expression sour on his usually pleasant face.  
"Well, if you don't want to ..."  
"Sorry. Sorry, Rings. Just ignore me. Yeah, sounds good. I'm up for that."  
The smile flashed back on Ringo's face.  
"Cool. Right, I'll just get a shower. That a date then?"  
Ringo paused, hand on hip, pouting his lips, camping it up.  
John chuckled. "Yeah, it's a date."

As Ringo wandered off in the direction of the bathroom, John surreptitiously checked his phone. There'd been not a peep from Louis. It was as if he'd dropped off the face of the world. He didn't want to look like he was chasing, but ... John clicked onto his messages. He'd sent two so far, and tried ringing. The phone had gone straight to voice mail and the texts hadn't been replied to. John huffed out a sigh, and leant his head on his hand. He heard the water from the shower start running, and his thoughts ran with it. Suppose he'd been stood up? Ringo was always hinting that Louis and his friends were just using John as a cheap meal ticket. What if he was right? John selected text messages and checked again for what was the umpteenth time on the off chance that the signal area was awful and a reply had been delayed and had miraculously come in in the last couple of minutes. No ... no such luck. John's thumbs hovered ... should he send another? Would it make him look needy? Maybe he should ring? Hang on ... it was only 8.30 ... this time of a morning didn't exist in Louis's life ... in fact, mornings didn't exist. Chiding himself, John snapped his phone closed and shoved it in his pocket out of temptation's reach.

 

Paul felt unsettled for the whole of the journey. Although, miraculously, he'd managed to get a seat. A window one at that. Maybe, he thought, that's because there's one person less on the bus this morning. What had happened to him? Had he been reading one of those books he always carried and forgotten the time and then missed the bus? Maybe he was ill. Maybe he had contracted an exotic incurable illness over the weekend and died. Maybe even now his funeral was being planned, his books piled, forgotten, in a corner to gather dust and be lamented over by long lost friends. May be someone would read a passage from one of the guy's favourite books? A lament ... spoken with a shaky voice by someone who had tears running down their face as they stood at the side of the grave. Paul chewed his fingernail absentmindedly. It was all too sad ... just so ...  
He blinked, bemused. What the fuck was he doing? Too much imagination, that's what the teachers had said. Some children don't get any, but your son ... they'd looked pointedly at his parents as if it were their fault ... has too much. Dreams his days away gazing out of the classroom window. Fabricating situations. He'd make a story out of a simultaneous equation if you asked him to. But he probably wouldn't be able to solve the simultaneous equation.

John made himself another cup of tea, absentmindedly putting two lots of sugar in, wondering why it was so heavy to stir. Would he wonder where he was, Mr. Camel Coat? Would he gaze over the bus and ponder John's absence? Would he ... miss him? John sipped the tea, pulled a face, but manfully continued anyway. He ran his thumb over the latest acquisition. 'Of Mice and Men'. He was looking forward to reading this one. An old college friend called Stuart had loaned it to him, but ... well, John probably wouldn't give it back. He acquired books .... no ... change that ... they acquired him. He had no idea how many he had but he knew everyone, and they were piled in the loo, on his bedroom floor, in the wardrobe ... in fact, he was beginning to drown with the sheer amount he had. He ought to clear some out, but ... well, he couldn't. Once he'd read one they became part of him. It would be like throwing an old friend away. 'You ought to run a bookshop' Ringo had said, eyeing with disdain? alarm? the growing piles. John didn't think that would work. He'd want to keep them all, not sell them. He took another sip of the sugary tea and opened the book to the first chapter. He wondered where all these words he read went. Did they gather in some chamber in his brain? Did he have an extra room in his head that other people didn't? 'Always has his nose in a book' the teachers told his aunt. 'Pity he doesn't show as much enthusiasm to his school subjects.' 

Paul had cautiously picked up his phone when it rang on Sunday morning, glancing nervously at the lit up screen, relaxing slightly when he recognised his brother's number.  
"Hullo?" He still proceeded cautiously. After all, someone might have kidnapped Mike. Pinched his phone. Hacked into it. Mike wasn't careful about sharing his PIN number. He, Paul, knew it. As probably did ....  
"Hiya, bro, how's it going?"  
...... quite a few of Mike's friends. This could be an imposter, hoping to .....  
"Paul? You there?"  
.... wheedle critical information out of ....  
"PAUL!!!!"  
Paul almost dropped the phone in fright. Which would have been a disaster as he was standing at a bowlful of sudsy water about to wash up.  
"Jesus, Mike" he wheezed, catching his breath. "I'm not deaf."  
There was a chuckle on the other end. "Thought you'd fainted there for a minute you were so quiet. What were you doing? Daydreaming?"  
Far too near the truth. Paul felt the warmth rise in his cheeks and was glad his brother wasn't there to comment on it. As he undoubtedly would.  
He gathered himself together, standing up straighter as he put the phone closer to his ear, aware of the fact that George was hovering about in the living room of their shared flat and could probably hear every word. Not, of course, that that mattered .... well, not really ... because he didn't have any secrets. He wasn't going to say anything that he wouldn't want him to hear. It was just ...well ... he liked his privacy ... didn't like to share his ...  
There was an exasperated sigh and he heard his brother say "Paul! Stop thinking and talk to me. Jesus Christ. I'm not a mind reader."  
"Uh ... huh .... er ... yeah ... right. Sorry. Okay. Erm ..."  
Mike chuckled. "For someone with a first-class honours in English your vocabulary is very limited."  
Emotions and memories that Paul had thought buried flooded his very being, painting his face scarlet.  
"Piss off, Mike" he muttered in a low voice.  
Fortunately his brother wasn't offended.  
"How's the job going?"  
Change the subject. Good idea.  
Paul eyed the hot soapy water. It would be a waste if it went cold. He strategically nestled his phone between his ear and shoulder, tilting his head to hold it, and began methodically washing up.  
"Good, yeah. It's good."  
"Any fit birds there?"  
Why oh why did Mike always have to ask that? As if he was encouraging Paul to ... be normal. Bury everything that had gone before. Emma flashed into his mind. He tried to keep the same light-hearted tone Mike had adopted knowing that there was a massive undercurrent that they were NOT talking about. No wAY wEre thEY evEr talkINg abOUt whAt weNt on ... wHat ...  
"Yeah. Yeah, there are. There's this girl called Emma."  
Ooohhh .. a name. Mike leapt on it.  
"So?"  
"So? So what?"  
"So? Have you shagged her yet?"  
"Mike!!!!"  
"Ah, come on, Paul. She married or something?"  
Paul shook his head and immediately realised two things. One ... Mike couldn't see his response. Two ... he nearly dropped the fucking phone in the dishwater.  
He was suddenly tired of the conversation.  
He loved his brother but was certain he was in cahoots with his dad to get Paul back on the beaten track.  
"Mike, I gotta go. I'm in the middle of washing up and I nearly dropped the phone."  
There was surprise and a definite tinge of disappointment to Mike's reply. "Go? I've only just rung you! We've been waiting to hear about your job ...."  
There! There it WAS! Paul knew ... the royal WE ...  
"Dad rang me the other day" Paul said mulishly, grabbing a tea towel and wiping the suds off his hands.  
"And said you told him fuck all ..."  
"Dad doesn't swear."  
"Ha! Really??? What planet you living on, Paul."  
Paul twisted round and leaned back against the sink.  
He HATED that phrase. He'd had it said to him so often when he was young. As if ... as if he couldn't get his shit together ..  
"I gotta go .."  
"Paul! Stop! Wait. Don't put the phone down. Me and dad wondered ..."  
Ah ha! Here it was. The reason for the call ...  
" ... if you'd like to pop round later for a cuppa, or summat. Dad said he could get some beers in."  
Beers?? His dad must be desperate.  
Paul shuffled his feet, and glanced up as George popped his head in the kitchen door, raising an eyebrow at Paul's distinctly uncomfortable posture.  
George would be going home to see his mam for tea.  
He often did on a Sunday.  
He loved his mam.  
Paul loved George's mam too.  
He heaved a sigh, feeling tremendously guilty.   
"Yeah. Yeah, okay."  
Mike's astonishment and ... pleasure?? ... at having received a positive reply rippled through the phone.  
"Really? That's ... that's great. I'll tell da. What time? About three?"  
Paul glanced at the kitchen clock on the wall. It was currently twenty past eleven. Time to put his washing through. Tidy his room. Check some music he was writing.  
He leaned his head against the fridge, grateful for the coolness against his burning cheeks.  
"Yeah ... yeah, okay ..." He didn't sound very enthusiastic.  
"Paul?" Mike's voice had suddenly become cautious. "You will come, won't you? You're not just saying ..."  
"No. I'll come."  
"Promise?"  
Mike was the little boy again, trailing after Paul, hoping for a share in his life.  
"Yeah, I promise."

 

John loved the darkness of the cinema, and that lingering smell of popcorn. It was an escape. A journey into a fantasy world that required nothing of him other than his emotions.  
And if he didn't like the emotions that were being demanded of him ... well, he could just shut his eyes and dream up different scenarios instead. Ringo nudged him in the ribs and offered him a piece of chocolate. John waved a hand dismissively.  
"No, ta, not yet. Wait till the film starts otherwise I'll be chocolated out before we get past the trailers."  
Ringo's grin was wide, chocolate staining his teeth.  
"There's plenty where that came from!"

It was quiet in the cinema. A Monday lunchtime, most people at work. A few obvious pensioners had turned up because they could get in cheaply, though they probably, John privately thought, knew anything about the Harry Potter films and the spin-offs that it had generated. He watched them as they carefully took their seats, folding their coats, getting comfortable, their voices with a distinct Liverpool accent chatty and bright.  
Made him think of his aunt.  
Though he had no idea why.  
She didn't particularly have a Scouse accent and had certainly done her best to beat it out of her nephew.  
Neither was she chatty and bright.  
In fact, yesterday's trip to visit her had been a real bellyful of laughs.  
More of an interrogation.

Standing there, in the hall of Mendips, he always felt he had somehow let the side down.  
Was a failure.  
Her eagle eyes would rake over him, dismissing her clothes, digging into his very being, and see only the worst.  
All those dark hidden thoughts.  
Dirty.  
Diseased.

"So, how is work?"  
John had carefully removed his jacket ... yes, proper jacket. He did have one. And slipped ... not kicked ... off his shoes. Damn. A hole appearing in the toe of his sock. She'd seen it. Those eagle eyes had seen it.  
"Yeah, it's good, thanks."  
She frowned. Was it because she didn't approve of his work or was it because he'd used the term 'good'????  
He moderated it.  
"It's going well, thank you."  
The frown lifted slightly.  
"And ... tell me again what it is you do?"  
As John began ... even bringing in the fact he'd managed to rescue a threatened event yesterday ... he had the feeling he wasn't impressing her.  
He didn't know why he ever tried. He could never ... not EVER .... impress Mimi.  
"Hmmm ... maybe I should come for lunch one day."  
Oh GoDDDD ... No ... Not with BRIAN there ... and .. ADRIAN ... and ... whoa!!!  
"Er ... I don't think it's the kind of food you'd like."  
She was instantly suspicious. "Why? What's wrong?"  
What's wrong? What was WRONG?? She wouldn't like Brian ... or Adrian ... or Liz.  
All perfectly respectable people in John;s eyes, but then again, John didn't look at the world through Mimi's eyes.  
"It .. er .. It's expensive. For what it is. And you wouldn't like the clientele."  
He was bullshitting her. She knew it.  
"You don't want me to come. That's the long and short of it, John."  
He curled his toes, trying to hide the hole which he was sure was getting bigger every second.  
"No, it's not that, Mimi. I just don't think you'd like ..."  
She cut him off abruptly. "Well, why don't you let ME be the judge of that. I'm going into the library one day this week ... you're not too far from that, are you?"  
Weakly, John shook his head. If he gave in, didn't offer a reaction, didn't provoke, maybe ... just maybe ... she'd forget about it."  
She folded her arms across her chest, a triumphant smile on her lips.  
"Wonderful. I shall call by for lunch on my way home."

 

Paul had dallied outside his parents' .... no, dad's ... front door, eyes seeing but not seeing the worn red paintwork, a few weeds growing by the step, the key being fiddled with by his restless fingers. Did he just let himself in? Knock? What would be the appropriate ....  
The door suddenly flung open and his dad was there, smile on his face, eyes wary.  
They were always wary, his dad and brother, dodging around Paul, bright, fake smiles on their faces, treating him as if he was a piece of delicate china that might break if they prodded him, avoiding the ElePHant in The RooM thAT No ONe wantEd to TaLK abOUt ... least of all Paul ... coming back from Uni, bags hastily packed ... and not by him either ...  
bringing DIsgrAcE anD DisHoNour On hIS FaMILY and ... oh, shit, why had he come????? WhY Had hE ComE???

"Paul!!!" his dad exclaimed, loud and clear, as if he was a surprise, turning up on the doorstep. As if he'd not been asked by Mike.  
He looked at his dad, saw the ageing processes that had taken place ... Jesus, that had been his fault, hadn't it? .... and stuttered.  
"Uh ... erm ... Mike .. er ..."  
Their was a brief frown before it was swiftly wiped away, his father ignoring his hesitation, his mumbling.  
"Come in, come in, son. We've got some beers on chill ..." and the door was open and he glanced into the tiny sitting room on the left of the hall and Mike was there, standing up to greet him, the same smile, the same wary eyes. And he was tall ... so tall ... Paul thought as his feet propelled him unwittingly towards his younger brother. When did he get to be so tall?  
A bemused smile crossed Mike's face. "I've been taller than you for a couple of years now," he said.  
Scary thing was, Paul didn't remember asking the question.

From the moment his feet had crossed that threshold it was as if his mind had been left behind on the front doorstep.  
All Paul could feel was panic, his mind numb, red swirls of colour behind his eyes, and negative vibes ... the negative vibes he'd felt when he had arrived home unannounced and unexpected ... the dismay in his father's face ... the revulsion ... 

"Sit ... come on ... sit ..." and a chair was hastily pushed under him. What had happened?   
"I ... I'm okay ..." he batted away the supporting arm of his brother and saw the glance that Mike and his dad exchanged.  
He hadn't meant to see it ... they hadn't meant him to see it ... really, he was okay. They thought .. they probably thought ..  
He gave up. He didn't know what they thought.   
That was the problem.  
And the ELEPhanT StiLL sTOod thErE In thE M idDLE oF tHE fuCKinG RoOm.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short one. It could have been longer but ... hmmm ... I might run out of time/my lap top crash/ lose the thread ... so I'm posting where I've got to. Appreciate comments.

Paul was so tied up in recalling his Sunday with Mike and his dad he almost forgot his stop. Only as the bus began to pull away did he lurch to his feet, treading all over the person next to him as he hurriedly made his way down the bus.  
"Sorry ... so sorry ... excuse me ... sorry ..." he mumbled, an air of anxiety emanating from him as he pushed his way through.   
The bus paused a few yards away from it's stop in order to let him off.  
"I'm not supposed to do this, mate" the driver grumbled.  
"Yeah, yeah, I know ... appreciate it ... thanks."  
Slightly mollified, the driver mumbled "Yeah, well, try and stay awake tomorrow eh? Instead of daydreaming."

Paul halted at the side of the busy street, catching his breath. He didn't want to be late. He ran a hand over his hair, smoothing it down, and gripped the handle of his bag tightly, hoisting it onto his shoulder. A fresh breeze ruffled his sweaty brow, and he breathed deeply of the salty air as he tried to push aside his thoughts and prepare himself for the day ahead. Think of the positives, he reminded himself. It was one of George's favourite sayings. After all, Saturday had been a good experience. A positive experience. He'd loved being with the children, setting some of the stories to music, leading them in singing. He'd seen the smile on Mrs. Henderson's face and knew he'd succeeded. It was a good feeling. Something he'd achieved on his own, with his own talents. He could do this job ... he knew he could. Think of the positives, he reminded himself as he swept in through the staff door and a few heads turned to greet him.  
"Mornin' Paul" he heard Ivey's voice off to one side and he smiled in that direction, noting the girl beside his old school friend.  
Emma!  
And suddenly Sunday was back.

His dad had dug and dug, trying to draw Paul into the conversation, trying to find out more about his job, his workplace, his friends ... particularly FRIENDS.  
Mike had been there, encouraging him to talk with expressive facial gestures that their dad couldn't see, rolling his eyes, verbally nudging him along, like a cheerleader on the side who desperately wants their team to win. Paul appreciated Mike's efforts, he really did, but ... he found it difficult to be open with his dad ... aware of the conventions, aware of the hopes his dad had for him, aware of the fact that his dad wanted him to fulfil his mother's hopes and dreams too. It was daunting.

And then his dad was asking him about his social life. Did he go out? If so, where? Paul mumbled something vague about George and doing a bit of music together, and could see the disappointment in his dad's eyes. What Jim wanted was a steady relationship for his son. A courtship. Engagement. Wedding. Children. Grandchildren to dangle on his knee.  
Not .. what had happened at university.  
NoT ThaT ... mOst dEfinITeLy Not ..  
"There's a girl there isn't there, Paul?"  
Mike .. fuck, Mike ... what was he doing?  
Over the top of his dad's head Paul shot his brother a venomous look, but Mike met his gaze challengingly, chin firm, determined, but a hopeful look in his eyes .... come on, Paul ... pick up the bait ... I'm tryin' to help out here ...   
.... and Paul realised. A life line.  
"Er ... yeah ..." he muttered rebelliously, examining his fingernails. Which were bitten. 'Terrible habit' he could hear someone say. Who? Who had said that?  
The temperature in the room shot up as his dad gave a leap of excitement, relief flooding his eyes.  
"Really? Tell me more?"  
"We .. er .. well .. erm .."  
"They work together and her name's Emma and she fancies our Paul like mad" Mike put in, shooting a glance at Paul, the challenge still there.  
Jim rubbed his hands together.  
"And why shouldn't she? Eh? Bag a good looking one here, eh, son?"  
And Jim was beaming and nodding and smiling at him and Paul felt a cad.  
"Bring her round for tea one Sunday, why don't you? Be lovely to meet her. I can get some nice cakes from Sainsbury's, and I'll get some white wine. That's what women drink, isn't it, white wine? At least most women I know prefer it to red ... can't understand why, but then again ...."  
Paul sank his head in his hands, letting his father's voice chunter on.  
Oh FuCk.

"What the fuck did you do that for?" Paul hissed at his brother, unable to avoid a sharp dig into his ribs as well, yet only too aware that if it came down to a fisticuffs between them Mike would undoubtedly win. He really was taller than Paul. Much taller. Paul felt a bit miffed really ... when had Mike gained these extra few inches? Had it been while Paul was away at uni? After all, he'd not come home very much in the last couple of years, because ... well, because ... no ... we're not going there.  
There was an amused smile on Mike's face ... whether at the jab his brother had given him or the annoyed look on Paul's face, but his eyes were serious. They reminded Paul of how his mum would look at him when he'd disappointed her in some way.  
From his position on the doorstep Mike glanced behind him into the interior of the house. He could her their dad moving around, collecting crockery for washing up, and he   
turned back to Paul, lowering his voice.  
"Look, I'm trying to help you here...."  
"Help me?" Paul's voice shot up an octave along with his eyebrows.  
"Yes, help" Mike hissed, dropping any pretence at camaraderie now.  
Paul took a step back.  
Mike sighed, ran a hand over his face, and suddenly Paul felt guilty. Guilty, guILty GUiltY.  
"Just ... just bring home a nice girl for once, eh, Paul? Make da happy. It doesn't matter if you're not intere..."  
"I can't do that! I can't just ... use .. someone like that" Paul cut in, eyes wide in panic.  
"You might enjoy it. If you try."  
"If I .. if I???" Paul's mouth hung open, words failing him.  
For a moment Mike looked distinctly uncomfortable and shifted on his feet.  
"You've had girls before ... lots, actually ... so don't come ..."  
"Mike, that was BEFORE ..."  
"So, you're different now, are you?"  
Different? Was he? Paul's mind scrambled to find a response, but he didn't know. He just .... didn't know.  
Mike saw the hesitation and took swift advantage of it.  
"What I'm saying is if you have once why can't you again? Take out a girl, that is" he clarified.  
It had been a long time. Paul couldn't remember his chat up lines. What you did with a girl. Jesus ....  
"You still here?"  
His dad's voice made him start and Mike turned swiftly.  
"Oh da? Thought you ..."  
"Washing up? Yes, I am in a moment. Could hear you both chatting away here so thought I'd join in."  
Paul gazed wordlessly at his dad. Christ, he hoped he'd not heard anything he shouldn't.  
"Are you alright Paul? Need any money for a bus home?"  
Paul shook his head. The guilt was piling up now. PILING....... bit shitloads of it .... he could feel Mike's eyes on him ...  
"No, ta ... I've got money, s'okay."  
His dad's piercing gaze was assessing ... analysing this older son of his who hadn't quite ... measured up. Had it been his fault? Had Paul needed more than he'd been able to give him after the death of his mother? Had he been so caught up in his own grief that he'd omitted to provide the support Paul had needed? After all, Paul had been the idol of his mother's eye. The one most likely to succeed. To fulfil her ambitions.

Mike shifted, clearing his throat.  
For a moment it appeared he'd been forgotten.  
It brought his dad back to earth, if not his brother.  
"Good. Going to say I've got a pot full of change if you need any."  
Paul's reply was quiet, suddenly subdued.  
"It's okay, dad. M'fine. I'd better go or I'll miss the bus."  
After a second's hesitation he suddenly leaned forward and hugged his dad.  
Startled, Jim awkwardly returned the embrace, patting Paul on the back.  
"Okay, okay. Don't forget, you can bring your girl round anytime. Just give me warning."

Your girl. Your girl. A girl. A GiRl!!!!!!

Paul's eyes shifted from Ivan across to Emma, who was looking at him expectantly. She looked very attractive today ... well, no ... scrub that ... she always did ... had her skirt got shorter?????????? He slapped on a bright smile.  
"Hi, Emma."  
Startled, she quickly gathered herself together. Bloody hell! She'd been trying to get this one to notice her for over two weeks now!! Finally!!  
Maybe, she thought, it was the skirt.  
Make a mental note.  
"Hi, Paul. How are you?"

 

John sat at Pizza Hut slowly and methodically cutting his pepperoni pizza into lots of slices, his mind miles away. One half was running ... or re-running .... excerpts from the film which he'd loved. Full of everything he enjoyed. The other half was re-running excerpts from his visit to Mimi's the day before. Those visits always dragged him down. Reminded him of everything that was missing in his life. Particularly parents. Especially parents. And when you lived with someone who loved their mam like Ringo did ... he even got on well with his step-dad .... well, it all just rubbed it in a little bit more. John eyed a particularly obstinate tomato that didn't want to be cut in half and attacked it more viciously. Families, huh? He often heard people say that disparagingly when there'd been a bust-up, but he wouldn't know. Family to him was his Aunt Mimi who had always been stern and unforgiving, even when her husband had been alive. John had loved his Uncle George. He'd had the patience to spend time with a lonely little boy; showed him things. Taught him how to do the kind of things that John had been interested in. How to wire a plug. How did batteries work? Why did bathroom windows steam up and where did the steam go? All the kind of things that Mimi wasn't interested in. She would have shook her head and told him to tidy his room ... which, remarkably, was quite tidy. Even now. She'd drilled that into him alright.  
But then ... his Uncle had died. Suddenly. Gone. Taken. 'Taken' was the phrase his aunt had used. Taken where? John had wondered, and could they go and get him back? She'd looked at him open-mouthed, unshed tears in her eyes, told him not to be so rude and go and tidy his room. He didn't get it. Why did people keep leaving him? Was there something wrong? A father he'd never known. A mother who was currently 'finding herself', according to a postcard he'd had two years ago now, in Tibet. He wondered, ironically, if she'd 'found' herself yet? And did she even remember she had a son?

The stubborn tomato suddenly capitulated and shot off the plate across to Ringo, who looked up with a bemused smile, but a concerned aspect in his big blue eyes. He recognised a 'John going into misery mode' moment only too well.   
"What did you think of it, then?" he asked, waving his fork in the air. Hoping to distract. Hoping to send John down a different path.  
"Huh? Uh?"  
Did they have camels in Tibet? How did they get around? And wasn't China building a high-speed railway into that remote country?  
"The film, John. The film." Ringo held on to his smile.  
"Oh, yeah. Good. It was good."  
It was only too obvious to Ringo that John's mind was still miles away.  
"What you doing later then? Tonight?"  
Louis!!! Fuck!!! John automatically reached for his phone in his back pocket.   
Ringo saw the move but chose to ignore it, carrying on blithely a conversation that hadn't really started.  
".... 'cos I was just wondering, like, if you wanted to go for a drink. Not too late mind 'cos I'm in at eight tomorrow. Got an early client. You know him actually ..."  
John's hand paused as it gripped his phone and he frowned. Knew? He knew one of Ringo's clients? A multitude of females flashed through his mind but he couldn't remember anyone he knew going to ...  
"...... George. The one we went to hear Louis's band with."  
Ah! Fuck! Ringo really hadn't meant to bring up Louis. Yet in a vain attempt to avoid him it was the very thing he'd done.  
Nonetheless John seemed suitably distracted.  
Enlightenment dawned.  
"Oh, George, yeah. Mr. Unibrow."  
Ringo snorted through a mouthful of Coke and almost splattered his food.  
"What?"  
Slipping his phone surreptitiously out of his pocket ... after all, he didn't want Ringo to think he was obsessed with waiting for a text from Louis .... John grinned widely.  
"Mr. Unibrow."  
Ringo laughed. "Wait till I tell him ..."  
"Better fuckin' not! Tell me, when you cut his hair, do you trim his eyebrows too?"  
"No! Certainly not. I bet you've got names for all kind of people, haven't you? What's your nickname for me then?"  
John had the grace to blush. "Mr. Scissors" he admitted.  
Ringo nodded sagely. "Figures. Could have been worse."  
Keeping his phone under the table, John opened his text messages and ... yes ... YeS!!! Yes!! YES!!! A message from Louis.  
"I thought ..." Ringo continued blithely, picking up the conversation again " that we could go to ..."  
Ringo's voice washed over John as his eyes quickly scanned Louis's message.  
"Pit tnite can u pik up 7 ta"  
At The Pit. Another dive. John did a quick calculation .... it was almost five now. If he got home and changed he could get the bus to Louis's house that he shared with other members of the band and various assorted ... groupies??? Hangers' On???? Drop outs??? That's what Mimi would have called them.  
"Sorry, Rings" John's voice was curt, cutting straight across the middle of Ringo's sentence without any thought.  
Ringo started, blinked. That was a bit ... rude??? ... wasn't it?  
But this, he reminded himself, is John. In for a penny, in for a pound. The guy never did anything by halves. And if he was in a relationship then he was definitely IN it. No holds barred, heart on sleeve, nothing else mattered. Trouble was, Ringo had seen John get hurt many times and had the awful feeling it was likely to go that way again.  
".... but I'm gonna be out. Picking Louis up at seven. In fact, I need to get back soon to get ready."  
Totally disregarding Ringo John began shovelling the last mouthfuls of pizza into his mouth. Heaven forbid that he could be late.  
He didn't notice the roll of Ringo's eyes, or the fact that Ringo himself was only halfway through his pizza. At least, not immediately. As John cleared his plate and put his knife and fork together ... properly taught by Mimi!!! .... he glanced up and realised that fact. Dismay crossed his face.  
"Oh ... Rings. You've not finished yet ... er ... I might need to .."  
"Go, yeah" Ringo supplied with a deadpan expression on his face. God he'd like to tell Louis what he thought of him. He sighed. "No problem, John ...." he tactfully ignored the relieved expression that crossed John's face " ... you just go whenever you're ready."  
John stood up suddenly, looking ready to fly to all four corners of the globe, winding his scarf round his neck.  
"I've gotta get a shower, y'see ..." he babbled.  
'Can't think why' was Ringo's unspoken retort.  
"... an' find something suitable to wear."  
Ringo sat back on his chair. He wanted to tell John to just be himself. Stop trying to fit in. Stop trying to compromise. A relationship should be give and take, not all take take take.  
John paused, alert ... "Rings? What ... er ... what you gonna do?"   
Ringo shrugged. "Might go see me mam. She always likes to see me, long as she's not out playin' bingo."  
John dallied, torn. He felt guilty. "It's just ... they're playin', y'see ... the band, that is."  
Ringo waved a hand dismissively. "John, it's okay. Go. Just go, eh? I'll see you in the morning."  
John's smile was wide with relief. "Yeah, will do."  
Now he'd had permission to leave his feet felt glued. Maybe he should say something else? A thank you?  
"Thank you ... for today" he clarified.  
Ringo waved his hand. "No problem. See ya."

 

" .... if you'd like to come for lunch with me?"  
There! He'd done it. Asked her. He felt the sweat trickling down his back. It had been so long since he'd asked a girl out. Back then, it hadn't seemed so hard. In fact, he'd had his pick of girls. It had never been difficult for Paul. He didn't know he'd closed his eyes until he opened them at her chuckle.  
"Paul, I'd love to, but we have staggered lunchtimes."  
Shit! Fuck! Of course they did. He ought to know since they worked together every day. A blush rose into his cheeks.  
Emma gave a fond shake of her head. No way was she going to pass Paul up.  
"How about a drink after work? When we finish? If you're free, that is?"  
Relief flooded through Paul. The first barrier over.  
"That would be great. Thanks."  
Emma dimpled prettily.  
"The pleasure is all mine, Paul, I assure you."

 

Conscious of the lack of pennies in his pocket, John got ready swiftly and caught the bus to Louis's house. His footsteps beat a smart tattoo as he strode down the skanky pavement to the equally skanky old three storey terrace house, the garden full of empty lager cans and pizza boxes that had blown against the wall. He paused to tidy his hair before knocking on the door ... the doorbell didn't work, that he knew.  
Inside he heard a few muffled exclamations, the clattering sound of a drum kit being tripped over, the giggling voice of a girl, before the door was flung open and Louis stood there in all his feisty glory. John swallowed. He always felt clumsy and ... old ... when faced with this youthful persona of fizzing energy.  
Louis smiled at him, then peered over his shoulder.  
The smile fell, a frown taking it's place.  
"Where's the taxi?" he asked in a clipped tone without even saying hello.  
"Taxi?" John queried.  
Louis looked annoyed. Peeved. A sour expression crossed his youthful face, and John was perplexed.   
In the darkness of the hall behind him the rest of the group gathered, jostling, joking, assuming they were going.  
A sinking feeling began in the pit of John's stomach, a feeling of bile beginning to rise with the anticipation of ...  
"You stupid fucker ...." Louis screeched.  
The gaggle behind him fell quiet, their attention caught.  
John wished the ground could have opened up and swallowed him.  
"When I said collect I meant collect. Us!!" He waved an arm over his head to indicate the rest of his band. "Now how are we gonna get there? Huh? Gig due to start in thirty minutes and no bleedin' taxi!"  
John's face was beetroot red.  
"You said .."  
"I said can you pick up? Clear enough, isn't it, thick head? Or are you losin' brain cells with age?"  
There was a snort of laughter behind Louis and John saw a red that matched with his face.  
"Piss off" he muttered beneath his breath.  
Louis frowned. "What?"  
John made a decision. Snap, like that. Ringo was right ... been right all along. He was being used. Well, no more.  
He took a step backwards, still facing them all. There was a pregnant pause. A stand-off.  
He took another step back.  
"Get your own fuckin' lift."  
Louis's mouth dropped open, and John noticed the greasy hair, the spots, the unhealthy pallor. What had he ever seen in him.  
"See you around, boyo!" John finished with a cheery wave and a two-fingered salute.  
He almost skipped down the road, feeling ... free. A weight lifted off him. No more hanging around, waiting. He could get on with his life.  
Yes ... on to the next chapter. Wherever it may take him.  
A little part of him wondered if Ringo was still home, and maybe ... just maybe ... he could tag along.  
Go and visit Elsie.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope this is okay ... not much time at the moment to write although I do have ideas!! Comments appreciated.

John's steps continued lightly along the pavement. He was almost bouncing with relief, humming a tuneless ditty under his breath, his eyes rapidly scanning the sights around him as he made his way onto the high street and towards the bus stop. He couldn't stop smiling at people as he passed them. The world was suddenly full of shiny balloons and puppies and kittens and beaming children .... well, no ... not really. It was just how he felt and he couldn't keep the bubbles down.

His feet slowed as he approached the bus stop and he patted his pocket. A bit short on the readies there. Maybe ... he surveyed the darkening sky ... it was mild for February. And, remarkably for good ol' Liddypool ... dry. Could always walk. He took a step away from the bus stop. And another. Yeah. Could always walk. Sounded a plan. Picking up the tuneless melody again, he shoved his hands in his pockets and headed in the direction of home. It wouldn't take long. And he could appreciate the world and the inhabitants he shared it with on his way home. Maybe ... even ... think up a plot to a book that he would probably never write. Still ... no harm in trying. He could call it .. let's see now ... "Goodbye Louis". He let out a chuckle and a woman with a pushchair glanced at him nervously. Not that John noticed.

Maybe Ringo would still be home. Maybe he could go with him to see Elsie who always made him huge cheese and pickle sandwiches.That would be nice. He shoved down the slight frisson of guilt he felt at deserting Ringo at Pizza Hut. He'd understand. He was good at understanding, was Ringo. A good guy. A good friend. He'd applaud John's decision to finish with Louis. Yes, he would.

It was a good decision.  
The right one ...  
Wasn't it?

It was a longer walk than John had anticipated.  
He began to get tired, his steps lagging, his thoughts dragging.  
The euphoria he had felt was slowly draining from him, exacerbated by the fact that the house was empty.  
No Ringo there to tell, to confide in. To tell him he'd done the right thing.

John grabbed a can from the fridge and slumped at the kitchen table, shooting off a text to Ringo ... who he really needed right now. Like, this minute. A bit ... urgently.  
John sat in the dark, watching the screen of his phone, waiting for a reply.  
He opened another can of lager.  
Had to do something while he waited.  
Read, then .. said the sensible part of his mind.  
No, said the maudlin part, I want to wallow ...  
Still no reply ...  
So ... just another can ... and the dark was hard to permeate ... creaking sounds of radiators, the fridge ... the sound of silence ...

He scrolled through a list of his contacts. Who were all these people? Most of them didn't matter ... certainly not ... with a growl he deleted Louis ... THAT one.  
He leaned his head on his arm and continued scrolling.   
Powell.  
He blinked.  
He'd not thought of her for ages.  
One time ex- that he'd remained friends with.  
Now ... he let out a loud belch ... SHE would be understanding.  
Eyes beginning to droop he let his head fall with a thud onto the table as he hit the call symbol.

 

Paul collected his coat, his heart beating a frantic rhythm.  
What had he done? What the fuck had he gone and done?  
A girl? A ... girl????  
"See you tomorrow Macca" Ivey called, a knowing grin splitting his face, throwing a wink in Paul's direction.  
Paul went to reply but found his voice stuck in his throat.   
He shrugged the camel coat onto his shoulders and buttoned it up, concentrating intently on the action in an attempt to pull himself together.  
Maybe he could ... go sick? .... explain he had some incurable infectious disease? ... no ... now that wouldn't work. In fact, that was just downright stupid, he chided himself.  
He was jerked rudely from his thoughts when Ivan suddenly popped his head back round the door he'd just exited and gave Paul a thumbs-up.  
"Nice one, by the way!! Thanks for holding out. I won the bet."  
Paul mouthed 'bet?' at him silently, his brow furrowed.  
Ivan's smile grew wider. "Yeah, bet. The bet! Remember? I told you we were betting on how long it would take before you succumbed."  
Judging by Paul's deepening frown he had forgotten.  
After a quick glance over his shoulder, Ivan slipped back into the room, holding the door slightly closed behind him.  
"D'you remember? When you started? I told you Emma's usually got them nailed within the first few days. D'you remember me saying?"  
Paul's fingers had halted at one of the buttons and he rubbed his fingers over it, thinking. Yeah. Yeah, he did. He thought Ivan had been joking when he said they were taking bets.  
He didn't like considering the fact he'd obviously been the object of their interest over the last couple of weeks.  
He gave a reluctant nod.  
"Well ... you know, this is the third week before you've given in. And I won the bet."  
Paul cringed, but put on a bright smile. "And how much have you won then?"  
Ivan wiggled his eyebrows. "Twenty quid. Twenty steaming doshers! Any way ... have fun. She's good company, is Emma. She'll look after you. See you tomorrow."  
The door swung to behind Ivan and Paul stood there, coat half-buttoned, lost in his thoughts.  
"I'm ready. Where would you like to go?"  
Emma's cheerful voice broke Paul's reverie, and he looked at her as if he'd seen a ghost.  
Her smile wavered slightly. Maybe he was nervous, she told herself.  
After all, it had taken him long enough to ask her out.  
God knows, she'd been sending him bigger and broader signals each day.  
She gentled her smile ... better rescue him.  
"I know a really good pub just round the corner." She laid her fingers on the arm of his coat and felt him flinch. Nerves, she reassured herself. Just nerves. "Why don't we go there, eh?"

 

The call was answered after a couple of rings, Cyn's voice bright and businesslike.  
"Hello?"  
John's voice slurred over the connection, not helped by the fact his head was still lying on the table and in an awkward position to make phone calls.  
"'lo Cyn 'ow are you? It's John."  
He heard a sigh, a pause, then. "Hello John. Yes, I know it's you."  
John blinked into the darkness of the kitchen. "You knew t'was me?"  
There was another sigh, but she was smiling. He knew she was.  
"Tha's clever innit."  
"What's clever?"  
"Tha' you knew t'was me."  
"Your name comes up on my phone when you ring, John."  
"Aww. Tha's 'cos I'm speciaalll..."  
"No. It does it for everyone."  
John made an attempt to push himself up from the kitchen table ... well, at least his head bit. Better to talk to her. He wasn't very successful though.  
His head thumped back down and the table shook.  
"John, have you been drinking?"  
"Sound like Mimi..." he mumbled.  
"John!"  
"No..oo..oo ...."  
"JOHN!!"  
"Yes. Well, a bit. I miss you."  
"No you don't."  
Well that was fucking blunt, wasn't it? John took the phone away from his ear and looked at the screen as if it would be more friendly. All it told him was he was connected.  
"I do, Cyn. I miss you loads an' loads an' ..."  
"How much have you had to drink?"  
John blinked again. He hated being asked that question. He never knew ... well, once he'd stopped counting it didn't really matter, did it.  
"John??"  
He smiled. "Hullo Cyn."  
There was an exasperated sigh on the other end. "Hello, John. Now ... can I help you?"  
"I miss you."  
"Have you just had a break-up?"  
Ooohh ... clever girl. How did she know that?  
"How did you know that?"  
"Because ..." there was a clattering noise on the other end, as if Cynthia was doing something while talking to John. John rolled his head against his arm. She was such a clever girl, this ex of his. She could multi-task and ... multi task. Hmm.  
"Because you ring me every time you have a break-up."  
"Tha's 'cos ... 'cos ... there's no one as good as you, Cyn."  
Let's try for a bit of flattery .....  
"Nonsense."  
John frowned at his phone. She was scarily efficient tonight. There was a bit more noise. Change the subject ... let's ...   
"What y' doin' Cyn?"  
"Washing-up."  
"Wash .. washhinn .. washh .."  
"Washing up, yes."  
"Oh."  
"John, I'm really busy. I've not long got in from work and it's my turn to clear up before my flatmate get's back."  
"Flat ... flat ... flatmate."  
There was another aggrieved sigh. "Yes, flatmate."  
"Not a roundmate."  
There was perplexed silence on the other end and John began to giggle.  
"Round .. round ... roundmate, get it?"  
Her reply was clipped. "Yes, John, very funny."  
John began to laugh in earnest.  
"Round ... roundmate ..."  
"Yes, John."  
"Roundmate ... tha's a good one ... roundmate ..."  
"John. JOHN!!!"  
He suddenly sat up straight. "Yes, Cyn."  
Bloody hell, the room was spinning. Maybe he shouldn't have sat up so quickly.  
Her voice softened. "Are you alright?"  
Well, that was the question, wasn't it. Was he alright? He felt his legs, wiggled his toes. Patted his head. He could see his fingers, although there seemed to be a lot of them.  
"I think I've got all my appendages."  
There was a small chuckle.  
"What y' doin' tonight Cyn?" He put on his little boy lost voice.  
It didn't work.  
"When I've finished clearing up I'm cooking tea for me and my flat ..."  
" ... round ..."  
"...mate. She'll be back soon. She's just gone for a drink on her way home."  
John sighed. A heaving sigh.  
"I love you Cyn."  
"Yes. I know you do. But not in THAT way, John."  
John leaned his head against his phone more snugly, as if by doing so he could be closer to Cyn.  
"I might" he whispered.  
Cynthia sighed. "You can't, though, can you? Not really. It doesn't work like that for you."  
"I could try."  
Cyn's heart gave a little jump. He didn't sound drunk any more. He sounded, for a moment, frighteningly sober. And she'd loved him. She had. But ... oh, the rows. The ups and downs of loving him. Life had been so much simpler without him around as a boyfriend. She was ... fond ... of him. Awfully fond. That was her problem.  
"John" she tried to be sensible. Brisk. Efficient. "Tonight I'm busy, but I'll be free tomorrow night. Would you like to go out somewhere? Maybe for a meal? Heaven knows ...." she threw the dishcloth in the sink as she spoke "....I'm certainly fed up of cooking. No strings. Don't try anything. Just for old times sake. Yes?"  
A slow smile spread over John's face.  
"That would be lovely. Meet you at the Toccarino at seven, yeah?"  
She smiled to herself. That Italian bar had been their favourite when they'd originally started dating.The sneaky bugger to come up with that one.  
"Seven, outside. Bye, John."  
"Bye bye sweetie pie pudding plum."

 

Emma began to have doubts. Big, elephant size doubts.   
Paul was so quiet on the walk round to the pub. He looked miles away, but then again ... he often did.  
She'd slipped her fingers into his, had felt him start, then after a moment's hesitation he'd curled his fingers around hers. They'd felt good. They were warm and strong and it gave her a little buzz, but when she glanced at his face it showed no expression. Well ... maybe a pained one?  
And that was when the doubts began.

She knew they'd been betting on her netting him.  
She was well aware of her reputation.  
She also knew that, despite that, she was well liked by her colleagues.  
She was young, she was fun, she was out for a good time and wanted others along with her.  
But ... this one ...   
She'd sort of got to know him as they worked fairly closely together, but he was an extremely private person. To wheedle any kind of information out of him had proved almost impossible. She knew he shared a flat in Aigburth with an old school friend; she knew he'd done English Literature at Manchester University; she knew he had an M.A. specialising in Children's Literature of the late nineteenth century. But nothing else. Nowt. Zilch. Not what made him tick, so to speak. Yet there had to be something. She'd tried to pick Ivan's brains. Oh, he'd said, music. He loved music. Was really good when we were at school. And girls ... Jesus, he had the pick of the girls.  
Well ... if so, what had happened?  
She tightened her fingers around his, and threw him a bright smile.  
Paul glanced at her in surprise, almost as if he'd forgotten she was there and was astonished to find he had a girl hanging on to his hand.  
Then, hesitantly ... aplogetically almost ... he smiled back.

Emma felt she had to take charge, and directed Paul towards the local pub she had in mind. At five thirty on a Monday it was quiet, just a few office workers grabbing a quick drink on their way home.  
"What would you like?" she asked.  
Paul blinked. Like? Oh, drink. Hang on, he was the guy. This was HIS department.  
"No, no, I'll get them. What would you like?"  
She dimpled prettily, and Paul felt a cad.  
"I'll have a vodka and orange please. With ice."  
Paul nodded, patting his pocket for his wallet, repeating the order softly under his breath.  
"I'll just ... er .. go and sit over there, yeah?" Emma indicated a quiet corner with an empty table, although none of the tables were busy.  
Paul nodded again, though she had the feeling he'd not really heard her.  
And her doubts grew.

She felt she'd never had to work so hard.  
That Paul obviously didn't want to be there with her was blatantly obvious, even if he kept that ... what she now knew to be fake ... smile on his face and appeared to listen attentively to her chatter. He was somewhere else. Somewhere else entirely.  
"Tell me about yourself." The command was sudden.  
He started, his eyes widening.  
"P .. pardon?"  
She leaned forward, and Paul's eyes automatically dropped to the cleavage of her low cut top that had been covered in the day by a pretty floaty scarf.  
She batted her eyelashes, watching a warm colour rise in his cheeks.  
Encouraging .... "Tell me about yourself."  
Paul cleared his throat, tore his eyes from the enticing sight, and leaned back in his seat, better to put some distance there.   
Maybe he shouldn't, though. He was supposed to be wooing her. Taking a girl home for his dad to coo over ... provide him with ... with ...  
Emma thought he was about to have a panic attack as she heard his breathing increase rapidly.  
They both spoke at the same time ..  
" .. what d'you want to ..."  
" ... I only know ..."  
They stopped, confused, then Emma smiled broadly.  
"Tell me about your time at uni. You came with good qualifications. I know because ... " she coloured slightly " .. I had a peek at your application. First Class Honours, eh?" She nudged him. "You must be clever! How did that happen?"

Of everything she could have asked him, it had to be THAT!!!  
A myriad of memories he'd rather not recall flooded Paul's mind, taking with them power of speech.  
It was results day ... he'd woken anxious yet excited, fairly confident that he'd done reasonably well, and made his way to the English Department where they would be displayed on the noticeboard outside the office. He'd meant to be earlier than he was ... already there was a cluster of students around the board and jamming the corridor, their chatter bright, occasionally elated, excited ... then someone caught sight of Paul and nudged their neighbour, nodding in his direction. Another student turned and whispered to their friend ... Paul could feel it ... a Mexican wave of emotion, and all of it directed at him. It seemed no time at all to Paul that all eyes were on him as he approached the noticeboard. He kept his head high, aware that his cheeks were heating up. A whispering ... growing in volume ...  
Taking a deep breath, Paul scanned the list ... and there it was ... his name .. at the top. The very top.  
A First.  
Not a Two one ...   
or a Two two  
or ... heaven forbid!! ... a Third.  
But a First ... a fucking First.  
Someone shoved him in the side viciously with their elbow.  
"That's what you get for sleeping with the lecturer, is it, McCartney?"  
He only half heard them, he was still gaping at the list, unable to believe his eyes.  
"Stop it, Josh" hissed a girl's voice " Brendan wasn't doing the marking, was he?"  
"No, but I bet he knew what was on the fucking exam papers, though."  
Paul drew in a deep breath, aware suddenly of the animosity he was surrounded with, and shoved his hands deep into his jeans pockets, turning to meet the glittering hate filled eyes of the guy that had voiced what was probably everyone's thoughts. Faced with such hatred, Paul took a step back, his heart hammering against his ribs. He wanted to say something. Defend himself. He'd worked hard for this degree. Had revised long hours. None of it had been given him on a plate, but he knew, from the look in his fellow students eyes, that none would believe him.  
"Congratulations, Paul" said a voice behind him.  
Paul turned to face Horace. Horace of the over-sized jumpers. A skinny, weedy little fellow who looked as if he'd stepped out of a bygone era. He'd never fitted in. Never had any friends. A loner. But at least the congratulations were well-meant, and Paul cringed when he remembered how, along with the other first years, he'd made fun of this peculiar figure. There was wisdom in Horace's eyes. Recognition of another outcast. Paul felt humbled.  
"Thank you" he blurted out before he fled the scene of his humiliation.

 

"I'd rather not talk about it." Paul's voice was icy, final, and he glanced up in time to see a flicker of hurt cross Emma's face, and he winced.  
He hadn't meant it to come out like that, and, fuck, but he was supposed to be wooing her. For his dad. Always for his dad. Trying to please, trying to fulfil, to be the son his dad wanted.  
"I'm sorry .. sorry, I didn't mean it to sound like that..." he tailed off, unsure, and Emma shifted, then smiled.  
"It's okay, I understand ..."  
"No, you don't .. you ... wouldn't" he finished lamely.  
There was a hint of curiosity in her glance, but she dropped the subject, her voice warm.  
"Let's talk about something else, hmm? I mean ... I know I work with you everyday but I don't know much about you. Where do you live?"  
Paul let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. "I .. er ... I live in Aigburth."  
She nodded, holding on to her smile, expecting more. Paul nervously rubbed his nose, and wished he smoked. Not, of course, that you could smoke inside buildings. He'd hardly ever smoked but in the short time he had it had stopped him from biting his nails. Maybe he was a nervous wreck? George had sometimes hinted that. George ....  
"I live with George" someone to talk about, he realised with relief "an old school friend."  
Really Emma wanted to know did he have a girlfriend? But she was trying to find out in a roundabout way ... she couldn't believe someone that looked like this wasn't already spoken for. Then again ... he was obviously uneasy with her. Maybe he was uneasy with females full stop? Maybe he was ... was .... a little niggle entered her head.  
"Tell me about him" she ordered.  
At least, it sounded like an order to Paul.  
Once he began, though, the conversation became easier. How they'd met, how long they'd lived together, what George did for a living. Paul began to relax, and Emma deduced there was nothing going on between George and Paul.  
"You like music, obviously" she stated after Paul had chattered on for a bit ... to be truthful she'd lost him a few sentences before.   
If she wanted to get him to talk it was simple ... she just had to mention music.  
It was probably one of the few times she saw him actively engaged in conversation.   
And while he talked she thought ... and thought ....  
Was he actually interested in her?  
She wasn't picking up any vibes, so why had he asked her out?  
Apart from the fact she'd been pushing and he must have been blind not to have noticed that.  
She thoughtfully twirled her empty glass between her fingers, a small frown creasing her brow, and Paul stopped talking abruptly, shifting in embarrassment.  
"Oh God, sorry, you need another drink and I do tend to blabber on a bit ..."  
A smile lit her face up and she put her hand on his arm to reassure him.  
"It's okay, Paul, honest ... I was enjoying hearing you talk, even if I haven't followed everything" she admitted.  
Their eyes met and Paul's stomach gave a tiny flip. She was nice. Take away the make-up and slight pushiness and ... yeah, she really was nice.  
There was a brief silence while they weighed each other up, then Paul searched his pocket for his wallet.  
"Would you like another? Yeah, 'course you would, sorry, I'm being so rude, I do apologise ... and ... maybe some crisps? Are you hungry?" Heaven knew, he was, though fortunately George would be cooking tonight. Stop prattling, he told himself, and paused, looking at her expectantly.  
Her smile grew wider.  
She was sure of one thing .... she didn't have any competition.  
So maybe she could afford to take her time?  
Suss him out, possibly?  
"That would be lovely, Paul, but my flatmate will have a meal ready soon and she'll be wondering where I am as all this was a bit ... unexpected." She waved her hand to indicate their surroundings and Paul realised with embarrassment he'd not asked her anything about herself. So she had a flatmate too then?  
His dad's face floated into his mind ... don't bugger this up!!! ...   
"Ugh ... uhm ... " he rubbed his hand distractedly over his hair and realised it was probably now sticking up in odd directions and reversed his rubbing, trying to smooth it down "maybe we could ... erm ... meet up again ... if you want to that is ... I don't mind ... well, I mean I DO mind ... but ... erm ... up to you, y'know, if you'd like, it would be good ....." Paul trailed off, muttering " sorry, I'm prattling again."  
Emma chuckled, her face pink and rosy. "Paul, I'd love to meet up with you again."  
"Really? Honest?"  
She batted his arm. "Yes! Now ... I need to catch the eighty five and it'll be here soon. Look ...." she stood up, gathering her coat and bag " ... I'll see you in the morning and maybe we can fathom something out. Cinema, maybe, or a meal. Whichever you fancy."  
Paul stood up too, relief flooding his face. "That would be good. Can I ... walk you to the bus?"  
She dimpled prettily. "It's only round the corner, but ... yeah, if you want."  
Paul slung his camel coat on quickly and politely stepped back to let her out first. Once through the doors she took his hand and this time he reciprocated. A warm feeling spread through her ... he was nice. Maybe he was just shy with girls, although, from what she'd heard from Ivan, he'd been quite a Casanova when he was younger. And why that reluctance to talk about university days? Now there was a puzzle.  
" ... this time of year."  
Emma blinked. She'd been miles away. Must have been talking about the weather.  
"Yes, it is, isn't it" she responded, hoping her guess was correct.  
It obviously was as Paul appeared satisfied with her response.  
The bus swept round the corner, indicator flashing as Emma put her hand out. She turned to Paul, leaning in to him.  
"Thank you for the drink. See you tomorrow."  
She tilted her face, expecting a kiss, but it didn't happen.  
To her surprise, Paul shook her hand quite formally.  
"My pleasure. See you tomorrow."

 

Emma slung her bag down in the hall and kicked off her shoes. The smell of garlic and vegetables frying assailed her senses, making her stomach rumble.  
"I'm home" she called, shrugging off her coat.  
The sound of the radio was lowered then Cyn was popping her head out of the kitchen door, a smile on her face, cheeks flushed from the steam.  
"Hi! How was your date?"  
Emma paused before replying "Interesting."  
Cyn quirked an eyebrow. "Interesting? Well, that's different."  
Emma gave a soft chuckle. "Well, HE was different."

 

As Paul struggled to get the key to fit the lock ... he'd never got the hang of these fancy security doors where you had to push the handle up, or was it down? ... before you continued to turn the key .... the door was yanked open and an annoyed looking George was standing there, scowl on face.  
"Where the fuck have you been?"  
Paul's fingers were still on the key which was effectively stuck in the lock and he wasn't sure what to do first ... answer George or remove (try to, anyway) the key.  
Judging by the deepening scowl he'd better respond to George.  
"I ... er ... I went for a drink after work."  
George waved his mobile phone in his face. "And you didn't think to fuckin' tell me?"  
Paul blinked. "Erm ... "  
"For Chrissake, Paul, I thought something had happened to you."  
Paul's heart gave a little jump. George was ... worried about him. Concerned?  
"I'm fine ..."  
"You could have told me ..."  
"I didn't think." Paul twiddled his thumbs. "Sorry" he murmured.  
Palpable waves of relief rolled off George and his shoulders slumped.  
"Jesus, Paul ...."  
"It was only a drink ... didn't mean to be long ..."  
"I thought you might have walked under a bus or something."  
Paul's mouth twitched. "Walked under a bus? Is that what you think I'm likely to do?"  
"The way you daydream, yes."  
Paul blinked again.  
He didn't really have an answer to that.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy! Comments appreciated.

"So ...." Ringo glanced cautiously at John while keeping his voice bright and non-commital " everything's good, then? Hunky-dory?"  
"Huh?" Having given Ringo his momentous news, John's thoughts had turned in another direction. Namely, what book to take with him that morning. He didn't need the new one he was currently reading, much as he was enjoying it. No. He needed an old friend. One where he could recite every line. One in which he could be the hero ... ah ha!!! ... Yes, Lord of the Rings. He raised his head, not seeing the kitchen tiles in front of him. Instead he saw an army. He was Aragorn and he was rallying his forces.  
Ringo glanced at the tome in John's hand.  
"You're never gonna read all that on your way to work?"  
John blinked, and his army vanished in front of his eyes.  
"Oh ... no .... anyway" he gave a Cheshire cat grin "This is the first volume."  
"You mean, there's more?"  
"Yup. Another two volumes. It's a trilogy. The first book deals with the forming of the Fellowship, but the second book ... well, it's split into two, really, 'cos the Fellowship splits and the book follows the two different parties, then in the ..."  
"Stop!!!" Ringo put his hand in the air.  
"Stop?" John queried. Why? He was just getting going.  
Ringo smiled. "I have to go to work. Explain later. I have seen the films though, y'know."  
John sighed. "Yeah. The films. They're good but ... ooh, the writing. It's phenomenal."  
John sounded as if he was about to launch into a eulogy, so Ringo quickly grabbed his coat.  
"I'm sure it is" he replied. "But ... well, I'll see ya later, yeah?"  
John clutched the book to his chest, the pages battered and well-thumbed, a beatific smile on his face. In the distance he could see his army returning.

 

It was raining. Not lots, but a steady rain as Paul boarded the bus. The swish of the rain as it fell, the sound of tyres on wet streets, the muted murmur of conversations .... all drifted into Paul's mind. His eyes darkened as his imagination began swirling. It must have sounded like this aboard a sailing ship of bygone times. The slap of water against the hull, the cry of seagulls. He grabbed onto the pole as he leapt onto the platform and waved his card at the conductor. Imagine if all these people were his crew and the ship was going down and he had to save them. The bus lurched as it pulled away from the kerb and Paul imagined it being the jolt of a lifeboat being lowered, and the poles he made his way down the bus with were lifelines being thrown over for the sailors to grab hold of. Maybe .... his feet slowed as the bus filled up ... maybe he could condense Robinson Crusoe to a manageable size to read to the younger children. Maybe ... maybe he could put it to music? Yes! Sailing songs ... jumping aboard a pirate ship, sailing over the Irish Sea. After all, any child growing up in Liverpool would know where the Irish Sea was.  
He swung idly on a metal pole until a voice in his ear hissed "Oy, muppet, shift down the bus a bit, eh?"  
Oh blimey, it was the guy from the other morning ... and almost the identical words. Blushing, Paul obliged and met a pair of warm amber eyes staring at him with amusement, almost as if he knew exactly what Paul had been doing.

 

John was riding his steed in front of his army, encouraging them with brave words as they faced the demons from hell.  
Never mind that he'd not finished reading even the first page.  
His mind was so caught up with ... well, yes, Ringo was right. The film bit in front of Sauron's gate had been thrilling.  
Although, if he had been Aragorn he would have run off with Legolas.  
John's eyes drifted back to the first page of the book. It was a big journey to start. He'd read the trilogy so many times. Knew it word for word. But if he was going to read it then he had to see it through. The story was so amazing it demanded that. He read (re-read) the first line again. Then drifted off once more. What would it be like to live in a hole? His eyes were glazed, seeing the story come to life, moving in front of his eyes ... a glimpse of gold ... gold?? John sat up straighter. It wasn't gold, it was camel. Mr. Camel Coat who'd leapt onto the platform of the bus as if he was escaping from something. John settled back and watched more closely. The young man waved his bus pass in the direction of the driver although John was fairly sure the driver wouldn't have seen anything other than a blur. Folding his arms, John's lips twitched, and he watched Mr. Camel Coat's dancing steps as he swung from pole to pole, oblivious to other passengers. He'd almost reached John when his progress halted, and he paused, scanning the horizon. Horizon?? John almost turned in his seat to see what on earth it was Mr. Camel Coat was looking at when a broad Scouse accent broke the spell. John saw a rosy colour flood the young man's face.  
Then their eyes met.

John couldn't help but smile.  
It appeared this guy was a fellow dreamer.  
Mr. Camel Coat's face went redder as he looked at John.  
Then John remembered what he'd done last time they'd met and he too blushed.  
For a second, though it seemed much longer, they stared at each other, then the press of people carried Mr. Camel Coat further down the bus.

 

"So, how did it go then?" Ivan enquired, trying to hide a smirk.  
Paul glanced up at his colleague. "Pardon?"  
Ivan's smile was full-blown. "You. Emma." He twirled his fingers in the air.  
Paul's reply was non-commital. "Oh, yeah, fine," and he turned back to the day's planner.  
Ivan blew out an enormous sigh and slumped back in his chair.  
"Oh, come on, Paul, give!"  
Paul blinked in surprise and looked closer at Ivan.  
"There's nothing to tell."  
"Nothing? No ... hanky panky?"  
Paul considered. Emma had seem somewhat surprised when he'd shaken her hand.  
There was a long pause, then ...  
"No." Paul said.

 

John rode his steed straight through the door and halted dramatically in the centre of the bar.  
Bye bye armies. Bye bye trusty steed. Bye bye Legolas.  
"I'm here!!!" he trilled, and Liz turned with an enormous smile on her face.  
John was standing, hands on hips, and pouting. With a giggle she threw a dishcloth at him.  
"Well, hello, lover boy. And how was your day off?"  
John camped it up, considering, pursing his lips, placing his finger in front of them thoughtfully.  
"Well, I went to the cinema with Ringo, then we went for a pizza, then I ..... da da da dum ... " he mimicked a drum roll " broke up with Louis."  
Liz's smile dropped and she suddenly looked serious. "You did? Shit! Are you okay?"  
Well, that was the question, wasn't it? Was he okay?  
He certainly felt okay. A bit hung over from consuming too many lagers last night, but Ringo had soon persuaded him he'd done the right thing.  
And he was seeing Cyn tonight.  
He beamed at her. "Never been better."

 

Paul was drifting along the shelves that held children's classics. Heidi. Little Women. Robinson ... ooh, Robinson Crusoe!! Treasure Island ... yes! YES!! He reached a hand out for it when another hand fell on his wrist. Small, dainty, manicured nails. He viewed it in surprise. Had he just ... summoned this vision, or ....  
"Hello, Paul."  
Oh, fuck, shit!! Emma.  
He turned quickly, causing her hand to drop off his arm.  
"I ..er ... yes. Well. Erm ... " he paused. What did you say?  
"Pirate ships."  
She looked somewhat taken aback.  
No, that wasn't right, was it?  
"Er ... yes ... hello."  
He boomed out the greeting loud enough to make her jump.  
After the initial start, a small smile crept onto her lips. This guy was actually entertaining in his unpredictability.  
"How are you?" she enquired.  
My dad wants you to come to tea ... to TeA .. to MeEt hiM anD .. no, don't say that ..  
"I'm, er, fine, thank you."  
Pit a pat a pat a pat went Paul's heart as he stared at her.  
He couldn't quite get his thoughts together. The sails were still blowing and the seagulls were still crying their solitary sound and the waves were beating up the side of the ship and the rigging was creaking in the gusts and he had to be polite ... be polite ... God she must think him a weirdo. He licked his lips. Think. ThINk!!!  
"I was ... was ..." he indicated the shelf he'd been perusing, and Emma glanced at it, slight impatience in her movement. These old books? Who read them now?  
"Oh, them, yes." She wrinkled her nose. "They need clearing out, don't they?"  
Paul gaped at her. Unable to put a coherent reply together.  
In the face of his silence she continued.  
"I mean" she waved a hand dismissively " no one reads these nowadays. What on earth does buried treasure mean to a child, eh? Too busy on X-boxes to follow these old stories."  
She wavered as Paul continued to gape, his eyes wide.  
Had she ... mis-read him?  
Suddenly, without warning, Paul straightened up, eyes darkening.  
"Clearing out? These? They're invaluable. They're still valid. Children need escapes like these. Getting lost on lonely islands, sailing the seas ... it's ... they're .... " he waved an arm, frustrated. For someone who had an English degree why did words fail him when he needed them most? His happiest memories had been hiding under the dining table as a child, lost in other worlds that authors had created. And she'd just stomped all over his dreams.  
Emma took a step back.  
This normally gentle young man suddenly appeared quite angry.  
And another step.  
"Paul, I .."  
"For children stuck in shitty lives, escapes like these are essential."  
A sudden memory struck him. Reading Peter Pan after his mother had died and weeping buckets of tears into his pillow. He'd always lost himself in books but after that loss stories had meant so much more to him. They couldn't replace his mother but they'd been a comfort. They'd offered him hope.  
Emma closed down, suddenly cold. She didn't like being crossed. And neither was she used to so much passion.  
It was a bit ... scary.  
"I misunderstood you. I'm sorry."  
Paul was quivering, he'd worked himself up so much. And he didn't like doing that. Didn't like losing control. He ran a hand over his face, suddenly aware of what an idiot he'd probably just made of himself.  
"Sorry ...." he muttered, turning away, running his fingers across the spines of the old books as if to reassure them that they were still wanted.  
Emma watched for a moment, then shrugged.  
She considered herself a modern girl, schooled on books that portrayed how life was today.  
Not these old tales of bravery and derring-do.  
Give her Jacqueline Wilson anyday.  
"Well, I guess we'd better be getting on with today's itinerary .."  
"Yes" Paul muttered, cutting in, his eyes still lingering on the spines of the books nearest him.  
He was ruffled, as if someone had stroked his feathers the wrong way. Those stories had meant so much to him, as they had to generations of English children. Thar was why he'd decided to do an M.A. on them. It was as if they were his children and they'd just been ... dissed. Behind him he could hear Emma sorting the books on the returns trolley. He should help her, but ... he clenched and unclenched his fingers. The stubborn part of him dug his feet in. The logical part reminded him that he was supposed to be wooing this young woman. He heaved a sigh ... much louder than he'd meant to be, and Emma glanced over, brow furrowed, equally stubborn.  
Well, this promised to be a good day, she thought wryly.

 

John twirled the rocket leaves around on the plate of dainty sandwiches. He'd built the triangular cut pieces into peaks that climbed like the mountains of Moria, then arranged the rocket in front of them in two little peaks. There! Now they were guarding the entrance to the mines. He stood back to admire his work. Did they actually look like the two enormous holly trees? He considered thoughtfully. If you squinted your eyes and tipped your head on one side you could almost believe ... yes ... he DID think .... he prodded the little gap he'd left between the piles of rocket and said, quietly but solemnly, "Mellon."  
"What are you doing, John?" enquired Brian's voice softly with that air of anxiety that he always seemed to exude. Worried if things went wrong, worried if they went right because they were BOUND to go wrong.  
John jumped slightly, but put on a stupid smile. "Entering Moria" he replied.  
Brian frowned. Moria? Should he ... get that? Was it? ....  
Finally he shrugged, casting an anxious eye at the rather delectable plate of sandwiches. However ... odd ... John was, he certainly had an eye for presentation.  
"Er ... yes. Right. Lovely. And ... what table are they for?"  
Fuck!!!! John had forgotten he was meant to be serving.  
"Er ... yeah. Table Four."  
Brian beamed. "And very nice they look. When you've finished could you give Adrian a hand in the kitchen?"  
And Brian swept off quickly before John could give a lewd response, reprimanding himself that he must learn to phrase things differently.

"What you doin' tonight, love?" asked Liz breathlessly.  
John often wondered how she did that ... talked breathily, that is?  
Very seductive. He turned to stare down her cleavage, which was impressive. Along with her legs. Had he mentioned them? Yeah, he probably had.  
"I'm up here, John" she murmured, and John raised a grinning face to her knowing smile.  
"Come on, babe, you don't really fancy tits, do you?"  
John leaned back against the kitchen counter, considering.  
"Well, I wouldn't refuse a pair if they were handed to me on a plate." He wiggled his eyebrows.  
"Go on with you!" she batted his arm laughingly "You prefer cock."  
"Now, now, Miss Lizzie, that's extremely rude of you."  
"And very truthful."  
"Hmm" John considered. "Dunno, really. Don't mind a good handful."  
She laughed again.  
Oh he loved Liz. She was so uncomplicated .... and caring.  
"So ... " she sat down on a bar stool crossing her long legs and he wasn't sure where to look first " what are you doing tonight with Louis out of your life."  
He shoved his hands in his jeans pockets. "I'm catching up with Cyn" he said.  
Enlightenment crossed her face. "Ah, the ex."  
"Yup."  
Liz examined her fingernails with a frown. "It's good you two are still good friends."  
"Ha!" John grinned. "We get on better now than we did when we were going out together."  
She looked up at him curiously. "How long were you together?"  
John shuffled his feet uncomfortable. A bloody long time.  
"Nearly five years" he admitted.  
"Wow ... that's" he could see the genuine surprise on her face" .... impressive ..." she ended.  
"Yeah."  
She waited for more but it didn't come.  
There was obviously a lot of history here.  
"So ... what happened?"  
John turned to glance out of the window.  
What happened was he got interested in a lad. He had no idea how, or what had suddenly clicked inside him. He'd been drawn to this one guy like a moth to a flame. And his interest had been reciprocated. Together they'd fumbled and explored, had embarrassing moments that they'd laughed about later, covering up the fact that neither of them knew they'd had that passion in them. With ... what had his name been? .... oh, yeah, Lawrence .... everything had been more intense. More ... real, somehow, than when he was with Cyn.  
It really helped that Lawrence too had a girlfriend. It made them feel not quite so ... queer. More as if they were just experimenting, trying things out, 'cos that's what you did when you had an open mind. Theirs had been an easy relationship. Not even a relationship. Just a bit of fun. And when it ended ... well, there were no hard feelings. They'd both discovered something about themselves though. And John had discovered that sex with Cyn was not as rewarding as it was with Lawrence ... and they'd certainly not gone all the way. But it had sent John's feet on a different path.  
"She's a nice girl."  
Liz frowned. That wasn't what she'd asked.  
"Who? Cyn?"  
John looked back at her.  
"Yeah. Who else."  
He sighed, and stretched. "She deserved better than me. I was looking for something she couldn't give me."  
"And have you found it?" she enquired gently.  
John blinked. No one had asked him that. He hadn't asked himself that. So it came as a bit of a shock to discover that ...  
"No ..." he shook his head. "No. I haven't."

 

The uncomfortable silence between Emma and Paul continued all morning.  
Emma was profoundly conscious of it; she wasn't as sure that Paul was though. He seemed to have retreated into his own world, humming quietly under his breath as he went about his duties. She surveyed him carefully whenever she thought he wasn't looking in her direction. This was a conundrum she wasn't used to. Obviously she'd upset him. Equally obviously he was in a mood. That came as a surprise. She was so used to seeing that bright smile she'd had no idea that this could be a particular trait of his.  
Maybe it was up to her to make amends.

Her chance came at breaktime, when she made a cup of hot chocolate for Paul and headed back into the children's section where he was ensconced up a corner, perching on one of those ridiculously tiny chairs intended for toddlers, his long legs folded up into an unnatural angle. He was miles away, making notes in a pad perched on his knee from a book he had balanced on his other knee. She could hear him tutting and humming and generally vibrating, something she found amusing and strangely entrancing. It was as if he had drawn a veil around himself and he was totally unaware of her presence.  
She placed the cup down gently on the equally miniature table and Paul glanced up, surprised, .... he'd obviously been on another planet entirely.  
"I'm sorry" she said swiftly. "I didn't mean to offend you."  
Puzzlement crossed Paul's face. He'd been so lost in his plans for a pirate themed workshop he'd forgotten all about ...... realisation dawned ... oh!! He tried to unfurl his legs and almost toppled off the chair.  
"You .. you didn't" he objected, trying to gather his thoughts together.  
Well ... she had, really ... he didn't like criticism ... never had ... found it difficult to cope with ..... he was stubborn ... and contrary ... he'd been told it often enough so he must be ... but .. well, he guessed he should grow a pair and get used to the fact that not everyone was going to agree with him on everything. Including Emma.  
Whom he was supposed to be WoOiNg!  
Because he was going to take her home to tea one of these Sundays.  
Present her to his dad.  
Because ...  
??????????  
"I wondered if you'd like to stop for a quick snack on the way home?" she asked prettily, jumping in quickly.  
Well, that was useful ... Paul considered. Saved him doing the asking.  
Even if it meant he'd have two teas because George was cooking tonight ... actually, George cooked most nights because Paul only tended to cook disasters.  
Emma saw the hesitation.  
"I mean .. if there's something else you'd rather .."  
"No!" he responded swiftly. Something else might mean he'd got to come up with an idea and that was effort. EFFORT!  
"No" he lowered his voice, aware of the fact that he might have responded a little loudly. "No, that's fine. I .. er ... I just have to let my flatmate know ..."  
Emma raised her eyebrows curiously.  
Paul looked at them in surprise. They moved perfectly together, as if they were drawn on ... actually, thinking about it, maybe they were ... well, he was used to seeing George raise his eyebrows. He did that a lot at Paul whenever Paul came up with a stupid idea. Not that Paul would have considered any of his own ideas stupid but George, practical guy that he was, seemed to think a lot of Paul's ideas were not workable. Like that idea of fixing a string to the light switch so that when they opened the door the light would come on. And George had raised his eyebrows. Well ... actually ... in George's case he only had one eyebrow and it spread right across the top of his eyes in a way that Paul ... who had two very distinct arched eyebrows ... found absolutely fascinating. They made Paul think of how you would draw a simple outline of a bird in flight. A seagull riding the wind above the waves. Following a bobbing ship across the seas. A sailing ship, wooden planks creaking. Paul could see it ... smell the salt in the air ... hear the cry of the gulls. Was it Legolas in Lord of the Rings who had said something about the sound of gulls, the smell of the sea? That once he'd discovered it he could never return home? He had to follow ...  
"Paul?"  
Paul almost fell over ... again.  
"What? Sorry, erm ..."  
Emma had been fascinated watching the expressions that had been crossing Paul's face. Wherever he was it wasn't in Liverpool's Central Library.  
"How about nipping in to Toccarino's on the way home?"  
Paul nodded dumbly.  
Fine by him.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry these chapters are quite short. Hope you're all enjoying. Thanks for the comments and kudos. And no ... I've not yet decided when they're going to properly meet yet! Just letting it roll on.

Paul found it difficult to peel his mind away from the ideas that were growing. His mind was like a tree blossoming. Once he'd had one idea, another one came, popping up out of nowhere. He scribbled ideas down on whatever came to hand, including the wrapper off his sandwich, his head full of pirate ships and flags and swords and the sea ... above all, the endless, boundless, sea. He didn't hear people when they spoke to him, and they could have been offended other than, looking into glassy eyes, they realised they'd not been heard.  
It was probably fortunate that he worked in a library where staff were understanding of dreamers. As the day progressed, Paul became more and more caught up in his idea, muttering under his breath ... Emma frowned at him in consternation but he didn't notice ... he was too lost in his mind's eye.

"I have an idea!!" he announced to Mrs. Henderson (Millie) and the staff in general who happened to be in the staffroom at the end of their day's work.  
All eyes swivelled to him, but he only saw the grey skies from those amazing windows.  
"We're going to do a pirate themed workshop for a week."  
We?? WE??? Mrs. Henderson (Millie) almost bristled at the audacity of this newest member of staff, then she realised, seeing his shining face, that he wasn't being rude, or presumptuous. He was simply inspired.  
There was a bit of murmuring, a shifting of bodies, a few amused titters, but Paul didn't notice any of it.  
Without being invited, he began throwing out his ideas. Ideas of involving schools. Designing posters. Discovering original treasure island stories. Getting children to dress up as pirates and have prizes ..." yes, we could have prizes for the best costumes ... and ... and we could have classes from the local schools come in and have a reading session and they could write their own .. and we could have prizes for the best stories too .. and ... oh, there's so much we could do ..."  
Paul paused for breath, and discovered that there were quite a few pairs of eyes on him, mouths agape.  
He coloured, embarrassed, and rubbed his nose.  
Had he just ... made a fool of himself?  
It would work. He was sure it would work. It wouldn't cost the library anything. He was happy to organise it.  
There was a momentary silence, and Paul shuffled his feet, feeling awkward.  
Wishing that maybe a big hole could open up and SwAllOw Him.

Then Millie stood up, smiling.  
"Paul, what an incredible idea."  
He looked up, his face brightening.  
"You think so?" he asked hopefully.  
Her smile deepened reassuringly. "I know so.It will be amazing."  
Then the other members of staff were nodding and agreeing and Paul let out a breath he didn't know he was holding, by which time Millie was standing right by him, patting his arm. She seemed to do that a lot. Pat his arm, that is. He frowned, wondering .. but ... no ... maybe better not think too much about that. Now she was talking and he'd missed the first bit because he was wondering about her patting his arm, and now ... fuck ... he'd missed the next bit she said too because he was still wondering about why he should be wondering about ...  
" ... when would be a good time to do it."  
And she was looking at him expectantly.  
Oh!  
Well ...  
..... no.  
He was blank there.  
She nodded understandingly, and he let out another breath.  
Had he ever breathed in? Or was he just letting? ... oh fuck, she was speaking again and he REALLY HAD TO CONCENTRATE ...  
" ... will take some arranging, contacting the schools, getting them onboard " she gave a little giggle at her pun" so to speak. I think ... " she tapped her teeth with the pencil she was holding. She was always holding a pencil. Paul couldn't help but notice that " .... so ... we're at the end of February now. Easter is quite late this year, so if I contact the local schools, particularly ... well, mainly, the primary ones ... we could probably start sending out flyers about it in a week or so ... hmmm ..." her eyes glazed as she was thinking on her feet " ... then ... we could aim for having a few little events here over the month of March, starting around the second or third week maybe ... then build it up towards Easter and end with a big story party and costumes before children break up for the holidays ... do you think?"  
She turned suddenly to Paul who'd been mesmerised listening to her.  
He'd also been somewhat overwhelmed by the fact that he'd come up with an idea that ... seemed ... okay? ... alright? ... good, maybe?  
She beamed at him. "Wonderful idea, Paul."  
And he melted.

 

John shifted awkwardly and looked warily at his boss.  
"Why you asking me?"  
"Because ... " Brian waved a well-manicured hand daintily in the air " .. you have ... ideas. You are an 'idea' person."  
John digested that thoughtfully. No one had described him like that before, and it gave his tummy a warm feeling.  
"Well ..." he scratched his chin thoughtfully " ... that's ... nice."  
Brian looked calculatingly at him, as if trying to work him out. He was never sure about John. He could often be so acerbic, and yet there was a warmth underneath. A sharp humour. Brian felt he had to steel himself before holding a conversation or, so often, John made him feel a bit of an idiot, yet not in anyway that Brian could put a finger on.  
"You see ..." Brian heaved a sigh and leaned forward conspiratorially towards John. John echoed his movement, as if a great secret was about to be resolved.  
"... there's a lot of competition."  
John blinked. What? What was Brian on about?  
"Competition?"  
"Yes, John. In the food market. There's lots of little cafes popping up. They all present a challenge ..."  
It was that word.  
Challenge.  
John's eyes went dreamy and he could see his steed returning, and his armies gathering, and ...  
" ... you might have an idea."  
John blinked again. "An idea" he repeated vaguely.  
Brian frowned. Was he not explaining things very well?  
"Yes. Something ..... something ..." Brian's frown deepened as he continued to make circles in the air with his hand as if by doing so he could summon up the words he required.  
"D'you mean ..." John shifted slightly, feeling awkward ... wary ..." like ... those sandwiches I did? Are you on about recipes? 'Cos I don't think that's my department. I mean, I don't have ideas in THAT way ... well, only occasionally " he concurred.  
"No. No, not like that. Some kind of ... event?"  
"Event?" John's nose wrinkled. It wasn't a word he associated with fun. It sounded too ... staged, somehow.  
Brian almost groaned in frustration. Either he was rubbish at explaining himself or John was the wrong person to approach after all.  
"I want ... something ... something that will attract people in here. Something different."  
"You could always dress up in a pink tutu and serve, Brian" John snorted, then immediately regretted his quip when Brian gave him a withering stare.  
Then a thought suddenly struck John.  
If Brian had competition ... serious competition ... then it could affect the business, and therefore John's employment.  
He sobered up swiftly.  
He knew Brian was wary of his sharp tongue and realised, with after thought, that Brian probably wouldn't have asked unless he was desperate.  
Maybe he ought to stop arsing around.  
He quickly wiped the smirk off his face and turned soberly to Brian.  
"An idea" he said.  
Brian breathed out a sigh of relief.  
"Yes. An idea."  
"To do with the cafe?"  
Brian winced at it being called a cafe. It was an eatery. A food bar. But ... well ... it was an upmarket cafe really.  
After a pause he nodded. "Yes."  
"Does it have to tie in with the food we serve?"  
Brian frowned. He did that a lot.   
"I ... I don't know. No, I guess not. Not really."  
John's mind chased vague ideas, none of them settling.  
"Let me think about it" he finally said.  
Brian nodded, relieved that he'd got off fairly unscathed ... as long as you didn't count the 'tutu' comment.  
"Thank you John" he said primly.

 

"So ..." Emma enquired as they settled themselves at one of the corner tables at Toccarino's " ... where did all these ideas come from then?"  
Paul shrugged himself out of his camel coat, letting it drape over the back of his chair.  
Where had they come from? Oh .. yes ... this morning's journey ..   
"Er .. the rain?" he answered with a quirk of his lips.  
Emma smiled warmly. Yes, she could believe that. It seemed anything could set this boyfriend ... boyfriend? did she dare call him that? second date? ... of hers off down imaginative pathways.  
"The rain. Okay. I'll buy that."  
Paul's smile broadened.  
"Millie was impressed." Was that a touch of jealousy in her voice.  
Paul's smile faded a little.  
"Er .. you think so?"  
"Mmmm. I know so. You're the flavour of the month at the moment, what with all the music you do with the little ones on a Saturday, then coming up with this. It's a big idea. Do you always have such big ideas?"  
Paul stared down into his lager, brow crinkling in a frown. "Erm, no. I don't think so."  
He could feel Emma's eyes on him but he didn't look up.  
He felt ... awkward. He wasn't sure if she was being nice or ... what.  
In fact, he didn't think he really wanted to be there.  
George had said he was going to make them pie and chips for tea.  
He REALLY wanted pie and chips. He began to debate what kind of pie George would choose. Okay ... it would only be a shop bought one, but it would be from the local deli and they were always ... ALWAYS ... so so tasty.   
" ... which you would like?"  
Paul jerked back to reality to see Emma waving the menu at him.  
His heart sank. It would be rude to say he didn't want anything. But he didn't. Well, he did. He wanted his pie and chips, and he couldn't be too late, because George had already told him that. Not in a bossy way. Just that ... understandably, George would be hungry too and he didn't want to wait ages before he ate, and he wanted to eat with Paul ... which was also understandable. And if Paul had pizza now then he wouldn't want ... he squirmed uncomfortably on his seat, and Emma's eyebrows rose. That wasn't the first time he'd noticed that ...   
"Paul?"  
"Yes, no ... I mean ... I don't know ... just a small one, yes, thank you."  
Emma chuckled. "Which reply do I take, love?"  
Love? She'd called him ... love????  
"Er ... the last one?"  
She nodded. "Just a small one?"  
Paul heaved an enormous sigh. Thank God he'd guessed right.  
"Yeah. 'Cos y' see George is cooking for us and he said not to eat too much, and I know if I start I might not be able to stop, and then I'll be full and I won't be able to manage the meal George has made me and he'll be upset."  
Paul did the whole sentence in one rushed breath and looked hopefully at her.  
"Uh huh. I see. Have you ... lived very long with George?" She tilted her head prettily to one side as she asked this question.  
Paul frowned. What had his habitat got to do with ordering pizza?   
"Erm, yeah, a bit. Well, about two years, I guess. After I came back from uni and ... and ... " Paul gazed at the ceiling, then the walls, covered with postcards of Italy, then his lager, which he'd nearly finished and oh God he needed something to eat, he was feeling so light-headed. He'd been so enthusiastic about jotting his ideas down on whatever piece of paper that he could find earlier that at lunchtime he'd thrown half of his sandwich in the wastepaper basket without realising and ... oh no! ... a sudden thought occurred to him. He'd meant to move it because .... well, that was just gross, wasn't it? The idea of a sandwich in a wastepaper basket that was meant for waste paper not food, and whoever the cleaner was she'd think there was a pretty scabby member of staff to do something like that and he bet no one else would EVER have done that, so they'd all know it was him because he was the newest. He was on the verge of getting up and putting his coat on and running back to the library when he remembered Emma, who was looking at him warily.  
And he was supposed to be taking her home ... taking her to see his dad ... yes ... that was right. Better forget the cucumber and cheese sandwich mouldering away.  
"A small one, please." He smiled brightly.  
She blinked.  
There was an expression on her face that made him think he was being humoured.  
George sometimes looked at him like that.  
And his dad.  
And his brother.  
He sat up straight.  
Better rectify this.  
"A small mushroom and pepper one would be fine."

 

John caught the bus back in to the city centre. He'd felt the need to go home and get washed and changed before meeting Cynthia, and as it was quite quiet by that time in the cafe bar he'd slipped off early. He knew Brian didn't mind. Told him he was going to work on some 'ideas' and Brian had smiled and wished him good thinking. Grabbing his jacket and casting a glance around the place as he left though, John was suddenly struck with the realisation that yes, it was quiet. Surely it was normally busier than this on a Tuesday evening? They did okay for trade at a lunchtime with all the local office workers, but when it became more of a 'bar' later on less people seemed to frequent it. According to Liz, who did a few evenings, only a few couples would come on their way to somewhere and have a drink, and a lot of times the bar was empty. Cogs began to turn in John's mind.  
Obviously, Brian was concerned. He would have to have been to voice his thoughts to John. He decided, firmly, that, yes, he would think about it. And make a plan of action.  
Just like Aragorn!

It had stopped raining ... a small miracle! ... and he could see Cyn waiting under the red, white and green awning of Toccarino's. He hurried over to her, throwing his arms impetuously round her. She was warm and cuddly in his arms, and squirmed with surprise and delight, her face lighting up.  
"John!"  
"Aye up, darlin' " he said as he planted a big smacker on her lips.  
No matter how annoyed she sometimes became at her ex she couldn't help but love him.  
"You're late." She pointed at her watch.  
"Buses." He grinned. "I nipped home to get changed. It's a long way from Garston."  
They scanned one another's faces, remembering. Theirs had been a long relationship.  
"How y' doing?"  
"How y' been?"  
They spoke together, and chuckled.  
"Good." John hugged her shoulders, slinging his arm companiably around her. For a moment, he was serious. "I'm good, yeah. Shall we go eat?"  
Keeping his arm firmly round her shoulders he steered her in through the swing doors, and the smell of warmth and pizza met them, both stomachs rumbling.  
It was busy, but then, Toccarino's always was. Good food, affordable. Friendly staff. Didn't have to wait too long to be served. John digested these thoughts. Worth remembering.  
His thoughts were busy with these speculations as Cyn chatted away, the words going over his head. He was busy scanning the restaurant bar for a spare table, and had spotted one up a corner, and he deftly propelled her in that direction. They slipped into the booth meant for two, facing one another. John preferred that. It always gave him a crick in the neck if he had to keep turning to one side to talk to someone.  
"Second pizza in two days" he commented, picking up the menu.  
"Really? Is that ... healthy?"  
He grinned broadly and Cyn's tummy gave a little flip. He had the most gorgeous smile.  
"Dunno ... but it's tasty."  
She dipped her head to the menu, perusing it thoughtfully. While he was waiting for her to decide, John lazily surveyed the other diners, his eyes drifting from one table to another. Almost every table full and a few sitting at the bar on those tall, red leather topped stools. Most were in couples, like him and Cyn. Made him feel quite ... normal.  
Then he halted, eyes narrowing.  
A couple were leaving at a table across the way.  
Dainty girl, long wavy dark hair, slipping into a red waterproof coat.  
But it wasn't her that had caught John's eye.  
It was the guy with her.  
As if feeling John's piercing gaze, the young man looked up, his eyes meeting John's.  
And for a moment it was as if the world stopped.  
Someone turned the sound down on the chatter.  
Realisation dawned in a pair of hazel eyes.  
No one else existed.  
No one.  
Then, like a shift, everything came back into focus.  
The noise.  
The people.  
And the moment had gone.

Except, for John, a strange sense of disappointment.  
So ... he had a girlfriend then.  
Why should that bother him?  
Why?

Paul had felt the eyes on him. He was weird like that. Too sensitive.  
He was always 'too' something according to those around him.  
Like a sharp beam of light he knew where they were coming from, but it took him a moment to register ....  
it was that guy. Minus a bobble hat. Mr. Paperback Man with those gorgeous amber eyes behind black frames.  
Paul forgot all about Emma.  
Forgot about everything as he met the piercing gaze.  
Then Paul realised ... he had a girl with him.  
A strange sense of disappointment twisted in Paul's gut.  
So ... he had a girlfriend then.  
Why should that bother him?  
Why?


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for comments, kudos, etc. It's always good to know people are following.

Paul couldn't help but glance over into that corner booth again, hoping against hope that he'd been wrong. But no! Those same eyes were still fixed on him, solemn, unsmiling. Manners, hammered into him by his parents, particularly his mother, nagged him to respond. To smile. To nod. To ... do something, anyway. After all, this was a fellow traveller. Not exactly a stranger, if not quite ... yet ... a friend.

FrIeNd???? What the fuck was he thinking? Why should his mind run in that direction? This was the guy that had ... had ... Paul shivered, recalling the feeling of fingers on his hair.  
That had been ... had been ... odd. Intriguing. Not, though, scary, even if it had startled him at the time.

Their eyes met again, and Paul blushed. He squirmed. Why did he always blush? Was this guy reading his thoughts??

A polite cough caught his attention. Fuck, Emma! He'd forgotten all about her.  
She was looking at him with a slightly impatient expression.  
Oh! Erm ....   
"My bus, Paul. It goes in five minutes. Which is fine ... " she held up a hand to halt the apology that was rising to Paul's lips " ... if we're going on somewhere else, but we aren't, are we?" she said pointedly.  
Paul opened his mouth to speak, as it appeared a response was required, but didn't know what to say so shut it again.  
Emma continued to look at him expectantly. Going somewhere else? Was that a ... hint? A suggestion, maybe?  
Involuntarily Paul shuddered. He didn't want to go anywhere else. He just wanted to go home for his pie and chips.  
Would it sound rude if he said that?  
Well .... not said it EXACTLY like that, but ... maybe phrased it more delicately?  
"I ... er ... I ... need to get home."  
He gave a quick cough to cover up his embarrassment. That probably wasn't the right way to say it either.  
He couldn't help but notice the hint of annoyance that crossed Emma's face, but she squared her shoulders and faced him confidently.  
"Okay. That's fine."  
He sighed thankfully ... and maybe a little too loudly.  
She gave him a strange look.  
Then again, lots of people did.  
Particularly George.  
Who he loved to bits.  
He honestly did.  
Well, not in THAT way, but just ... for being there for him.  
Even if he was a bit bossy.  
"I'll see you tomorrow." Her tone was abrupt, but she didn't go.  
She still stood there.  
Paul fidgeted with his buttons, his fingers, his hair, then realisation dawned.  
"Oh ... yeah. I'll walk you to the bus stop."  
She gave a slight shake of her head in bemusement.  
"That would be nice. Thank you."  
Jesus, had this lad ever had a girlfriend before? she wondered.  
Ivan said he'd been a proper 'Lothario' when at school.  
She found that difficult to imagine.

However, he politely held the door open for her, casting one final glance back to find Mr. Paperback Man's eyes still watching him.  
He walked her to the bus stop and dallied there, fingers in his pockets, while she made small talk, relieved to see the green bus turn the corner.  
She looked at him expectantly.  
He blinked.  
Was there something he ought to ... oh!!!  
Emma took matters into her own hands and, going on tip toe, leaned up to give him a kiss.  
Paul went beetroot red, at which she gave a little smile.  
"See you tomorrow, love."  
Love!  
She'd done it again.  
Called him love.  
Paul dazedly headed in the direction of his own bus stop, his feet picking up the pace once they remembered the pie and chips.  
Home.  
The sigh he heaved this time was loud enough to cause a few passers-by to glance at him in concern, but he didn't see them.  
He was going home.

 

"John?" Cynthia waved her hand in front of his face. He didn't notice. He was staring intently across the restaurant bar.  
"Hello??? Anyone in there??? Yoo hoo???"  
John blinked, startled, as Cyn's fingers almost touched his nose.  
She gave him a beaming smile.  
"THERE you are. I thought you'd gone."  
"Gone?"   
She looked thoughtfully at him.   
He still appeared only half with it.  
"Are you okay?"  
There was concern in her voice, and he picked himself up swiftly.  
What was he doing mooning over some guy he didn't even know and who ... (fuck, fuck, fuck) ... had a girlfriend and who was probably straight as a die.  
"Yeah, yeah, sorry, love. Thought I saw someone I knew."  
Cynthia glanced curiously towards the door to see a couple just leaving, the back of a camel coat, arm outstretched as the guy held open the door. She turned back to John ... if she hadn't she would have seen Emma, who also glanced questioningly back into the crowded room as if to ascertain what .. or who ... had caught Paul's eye.

But John seemed his normal self. Charming, even. She'd always found him charming. A right flirt.  
While waiting for the pizza to arrive they chatted about everyday things. How Cyn's work was going in the Art Gallery ... she loved her job, and John was proud of her for realising her dream and being able to work with paintings and sculptures and exhibitions. In the short time they'd been together at the local art college (before John was expelled) this had been her vision and she'd worked hard to achieve it. The slightly serious girl disappeared and she became animated describing all the 'happenings' they'd had.   
Careful of her manners, she enquired about John's job.  
He'd struggled to fit in ... anywhere.  
She knew why.  
He was such an individual, apt to say what he thought rather than what was expected.  
Sharp witted ...  
but so ... talented.  
In his own way.  
He ended up explaining about Brian asking for ideas to boost business, and she frowned, wrinkling her nose.  
It was such an endearing trait of hers, and John found himself watching her intently. Such a dear girl. Such a pity .... if only he'd been able to stay on the straight and narrow, instead of ...  
of ....  
a pair of wide hazel eyes swam into his vision.  
He caught himself with an curse, and Cyn looked at him, mystified, as she gracefully accepted the plate of pizza that had just arrived.  
"Everything okay, love?"  
John could have kicked himself. Two days out of a relationship ... fuck, not even that! ... and he was dreaming of another man.  
He slapped on a grin.  
"Absolutely fine."  
She studied him carefully. John's love life was a source of fascination to her. How could they have been together all those years and he not have known?  
"So ... Louis?"  
"Over him" John stated, tossing back a swig of lager.  
Cyn nodded.  
Well, what else could she do?  
It seemed that, since they'd parted ways almost two years ago, John had done nothing but search for a soul mate. Or a bed mate.  
She sighed softly, cutting into her pepperoni pizza.   
Personally, she'd never found another John. She wasn't an outgoing person, unlike her flatmate, who seemed to have boys by the dozen. She was ... homely. Well, that's what her mother always told her. Translate that, she reckoned, as 'boring'. She never knew what had attracted John to her in the first place. They had been ... still were .... such opposites.  
When she'd been with John she felt as if he was always looking for more than she could give him. He was, after all, quite ... exciting. Lively. Full of wit and vigour. She always felt she wasn't quite measuring up to his ideal, no matter how hard she tried, which had let to frustration and arguments on both their sides. Then they'd met that other couple. What were their names? She frowned. Ah, yes ... Lawrence. Lawrence and ... and .... Candice. And something had clicked.

They'd bumped into one another .... accidentally ... at a textiles exhibition that she'd dragged John to. He was bored. Really bored. Fiddling with things that he wasn't supposed to touch. He'd been told a few times not to handle things by one of the curators that was there, but still he insisted. Poking and prodding. A hissed argument began, Cyn keeping her voice low, John's growing in volume.  
Finally, John had turned for the exit. "I need a fag" he'd announced dramatically.  
"But you don't smoke." Cyn had been puzzled.  
He wiggled his eyebrows.  
"Well, maybe I do now."

Puzzled, she'd followed him out into the tiny grassed area that surrounded the museum, and outside, equally holding a 'hissing' argument, was another couple.  
The guy, tall and dressed solely in black leather, was leaning nonchalantly against the wall, a cigarette in his lips, while his girlfriend, a petite, almost dowdy little figure (oh yes, Cyn could see the comparison almost immediately) was berating him in a low tone. The guys eyes were fixed somewhere on the horizon as he let the words drift over his head along with the cigarette smoke.  
They'd both paused as Cyn accidentally let the door slam as she followed John.  
And .... that was it.  
Whatever 'it' was.

Cyn stopped existing for John.  
The other girl equally ceased to exist.

Something sparked within John as the guy looked over at him with curious eyes, a touch of amusement in their depths.  
John barrelled straight over to him.  
"Can I cadge a fag, mate, me heads about done in in there."  
Giving a chuckle, the leather clad guy held out his packet of cigarettes and John extracted one. On being offered a light, John leaned in. He could see the dark hairs on the back of the guys fingers, feel his breath on his face. John took a drag, tried not to choke ... 'cos, well, that would just be so embarrassing, and flicked his eyes up to meet a seriously interest gaze on him, laughter, fun and unspoken promises dancing a halo round them.  
For a moment there was silence as they analysed one another, then ....  
"Fancy a drink?"  
John nodded. "Aye, let's split."

Cynthia stood there, gobsmacked. She couldn't believe John had just ... gone ... like that.  
No explanation.  
She turned her head to the dowdy girl who was also standing with open mouth.  
Cyn thought ... considering ... should she offer to go back in with her? ... should she ...well, it looked like they'd both been dumped. Left in the same embarrassing position. The girl turned to look at Cyn. Her face was flat, devoid of emotion. Cyn had a feeling she wouldn't get on with her. After all, she might be a bit of a shrinking violet herself, but none of her friends were. She'd always, subconsciously, sought opposites to her own nature.

She took a step back, as if to indicate her non-interest.  
Casting her a dismissive glance, the other girl turned and left.  
And that was the first and last time they ever met.  
Not so for John though.

"Lawrence" John said, next morning, lighting up another cigarette.  
Cyn waved the smoke away.  
She didn't mind people smoking, but not in the flat.  
And ... why? Why had John started smoking? Again? He'd given up the habit over two years before at her insistence. (Nagging, he'd said.)  
"His girl's called Candice."  
Candice. Cyn mulled it over.  
"We're meeting up tonight."  
Cyn started. "What? All of us?"  
He looked at her as if she were an idiot.  
"No, y' daftie. Me an' Lawrence."

And that was when she lost him.  
Although, in another way, she found him.  
He didn't, obviously, go into long explanations of their sexual exploitations, but he did share his feelings with Cyn.  
Which, she thought rather smugly, was probably more than Lawrence did with Candice.  
And John changed.  
She had to admit.  
He was obviously so much happier. Fulfilled.  
He'd found in Lawrence what he couldn't find in her.  
And at the same time he'd discovered his true self.

 

"He was just a little shit" John said.  
Cyn nodded.  
It did seem, since that first encounter with Lawrence, that John had struggled to find a sincere relationship.  
Though he had lots of friends, most of whom Cyn knew.  
"Ringo's been telling me that for ages. Finally listened to him."  
Cyn nodded again.  
Tonight she was a listening ear.  
That was what John wanted and needed.  
Someone he could pour out his feelings to.  
"Any one on the horizon?" she enquired politely, struggling to slice up the pizza without it sliding off the plate and landing on her lap.  
John thought for a second.  
Those eyes.  
Those long legs.  
That soft dark hair.  
"No!" he said.

 

Paul barrelled anxiously through the door, aware of the fact it was later than he'd meant to be. By the time Emma's bus had arrived, he'd missed his own and had to wait another twenty minutes. The smell of pie met him, and despite having eaten a pizza only an hour or so before, his stomach rumbled at the smell. Well, he had been careful. He'd only had a small one, and he'd cut off all the crusts because, after all, that was the filling part.  
"I'm back" he called "Sorry I'm la .... "  
He didn't get chance to finish because the kitchen door opened and George's long arm, clutching a freshly poured chilled pint, emerged in front of Paul's face, closely followed by George's grinning visage.  
Paul gave a relieved sigh. So George wasn't annoyed at him then.  
He took it thankfully, downing a couple of gulps, his dark eyes intently studying George for feedback.  
"Good pizza?"  
Paul nodded. "Okay, yeah. But not as good as your pie and chips."  
George thumped him on the shoulder. "Flatterer. D'you have a good day?"  
Paul nodded, the events flooding back.  
George saw him take a breath, and prepared himself for the barrage,  
"I had this idea, see, 'cos it was raining this morning, an' it made me think about the sea, and sailing ships, and buried treasure and pirates, and I thought that we could do a whole themed event on this subject, getting local schools in, doing story time, and I mapped the whole thing out and told Millie my ideas and .... " Paul paused to snatch a breath and George held his hand up.  
"Stop!" he commanded.  
"Stop?" Paul queried with a frown.  
George softened the command with a smile.  
"Pie and chips are waiting. Why don't you go and get a quick shower and tell me all about it over tea, eh?"  
George winced even as he spoke. He didn't want to seem patronising or talk down to Paul, and was only too aware of the fact he tended to boss him about a bit. He felt even worse when he saw Paul falter, unsure. He really didn't want to dampen the enthusiasm that had taken so long to return to this young man.  
He warmed his smile up even more. "Honestly, Paul, the chips'll taste awful if I try and keep them warm for too long. I'm really looking forward to hearing about your day, but over tea, yeah?"  
He saw Paul chew his bottom lip, thinking, then there was a nod.  
George nodded in the direction of the bathroom.  
"I'll give you five minutes then tea's on the table. Okay?"  
Paul nodded carefully. "Yeah, okay."  
As George turned to go back into their tiny kitchen Paul cautiously enquired. "What kind of pie is it?"  
"Steak and ale ... your favourite" George threw back over his shoulder.  
Paul gave a quiet jiggle, and was in the bathroom throwing off his clothes before George could say another word.

 

As the hot water hit his shoulders, Paul felt himself relax, sliding down until he was sitting on the shower tray, the water cascading over him. He busied himself compartmentalising his day, starting with his plan. HiS PlAn. Nobody elses. If he shut his eyes he could see the pirate ships riding storm tossed seas. Then there was his journey this morning in on the bus and ... oh, yeah. Mr. Paperback Man who had looked at him as if he knew what was going on in his head. And then ... seeing him again. Just. With a girl. Which brought him back to Emma. He neatly boxed her up in his head and put her on one side. He wasn't really sure what to do with her yet. Other than give her to his dad.  
And .... George. With his pie and chips. Paul could almost taste them.

"He's a bit bossy, isn't he?"  
Paul had frowned at Emma's statement.  
George? Bossy?  
Sometimes he, Paul, thought that of George, but he knew it was for his own good that George was like that with him. He'd dug Paul out of the hole that he'd buried himself into when he first arrived back, unexpected, uncalled for, from uni. With no idea of what he was going to do. His dad's dismay, his brother's incredulity.  
"You didn't think it was forever, did you, Paul?"  
Brendan's voice, a sneer lifting those lips.  
A shape behind him. Lurking in the shadows.  
Ready to take Paul's place.  
A final year student.  
Just like he'd been almost two years ago.  
He'd stood there, at the apartment door, clutching the bags that had been pushed into his arms, unable to form any words.  
Brendan had looked him up and down before giving a dismissive nod.  
"I'll see you around. Cheers."  
And Paul had been confronted with a door closing in his face.

Thank God for George.  
Funny, Paul mused, as he watched the water trickle through his fingers, how he used to be older than George. By a few months anyway.  
Now George seemed older than him.  
Wiser.  
More grounded.  
God, he'd be lost without him.

 

"Paul? You gone down the plughole?"  
Paul started, clambering unsteadily to his feet on the slippy porcelain.  
"No, no, I'm good."  
He heard George chuckle.  
"Right, I'm serving now. An' if you're not quick I might just eat ..... "  
The bathroom door was flung open, Paul hastily tying a towel round himself.  
" .... yours." George finished with a grin.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a few flashbacks in the story line, which will keep occurring so that you get to know more about Paul and John's background. Hope you can keep track of what is what!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter really does leap through lots of time lines. Hope you can follow it.

Seriously. What was that guy on? He was just .....

"..... impossible!" Emma pouted, flouncing down onto the sofa.  
Wide eyed Cynthia looked at her flatmate. All she'd enquired was how the date had gone.   
Obviously, not that well.  
"He's on another planet most of the time. I think if I did a striptease in front of him he'd just comment on the weather."  
Cynthia stifled a chuckle, turning it quickly into a cough.  
Emma was not fooled, and glared daggers at her.  
"Well, I don't know what you're giggling at. At least my boyfriends have never swapped me for a fella."  
Ouch! That hurt.  
Cyn straightened up, handbags at fifty paces.  
"John did not 'swap' me."  
"Oh no? What d'you call it then?"  
Cyn thought quickly.  
"Er ... a realisation?" she offered.  
Sometimes she had no idea why she was friends with Emma.

 

Paul had managed to talk his way through most of his pie and chips, mouth full, majority of the words a garble to George, who nonetheless enjoyed the entertainment.  
He reckoned he'd managed to grasp the idea of pirate ships and sailing boats and treasure islands that Paul had come up with and was so full of. Nodding and agreeing in, it appeared, all the right places. As Paul eventually slowed down his delivery, George was able to ask the question he'd been dying to know.  
"How was your date?"  
He asked the question innocently, chewing slowly on a piece of pie as he did so, a smile on his face.  
Paul halted, eyes blank, mouthing the word 'date' as if he'd not heard it before.  
Looking at George as if he was some weird oddity.  
Placidly, George met Paul's bewildered stare.  
"Emma?" he offered, throwing a lifeline.  
Paul had stopped eating, confused.  
"Emma?"  
George cast his eyes to heaven (well the ceiling) and seriously wondered about his flatmate.

 

John leaned back against the bus seat, settling himself in contentedly. He felt warm and satisfied, a happy, snuggly feeling in his tummy. Like being tucked in bed by his aunt when he was a little boy. An elusive feeling. One he didn't often experience nowadays. Always so transient. Searching. Seeking. In a strange way he related that feeling to Cynthia. She managed to fill the holes left behind by others. John shuffled further down in his seat and sighed, looking out at the dark and drizzly streets. A murk caused by the streetlamps created a swirling mist, and he peered to see whereabouts they were. It was a long journey back to Garston though. Cynthia. He wondered vaguely if he tried really hard they could make it work? He knew .... well, at least was fairly certain .... that she would have him back. She loved him.  
She loved him.  
A smile curved John's lips.  
She did. He knew that.  
And he loved her.  
But .... just not in that way.  
And anyway ... he gave himself a shake and sat up straighter, as if to admonish his wandering thoughts .... if they were together again like that, they'd argue.  
He had to be reasonable and acknowledge that fact.  
He couldn't be to Cyn what she wanted, and she couldn't fulfil him.  
A tiny bit would forever remain empty.  
He sighed.  
Twenty six. On the way to twenty seven.  
Would he ever find someone who could be everything to him?  
Who, in return, he could be everything to?

 

George had been busy trying to read an article about one of his favourite songs, and hadn't heard (ignored) his mother's voice, until she repeated the sentence.  
"George? Did you hear me? I said .... Paul's back."  
He let the magazine slip from his fingers and looked, puzzled, at his mother.  
Paul couldn't be back. Impossible. He would have let him know, surely?  
The last time they'd met ... and that had been Christmas .... ages ago .... Paul had been adamant that he'd probably remain in Manchester when he finished his M.A.

They'd met at a pub. One of their locals. Or had been until Paul had taken off for the world of uni and a life that didn't involve George.  
George had been really excited about meeting up with Paul again, but the meeting was doomed to failure. Paul had been twitchy. Kept glancing at his phone; whether to check the time or for a message George didn't know, but conversation had never really got off the ground. They couldn't seem to find a common topic to launch a chat, and George had left feeling dissatisfied. And disappointed. He'd been close to Paul for years. They'd been best mates. But uni had changed Paul ... and not just the accent. 

"Back?" George queried, feeling a strange twist within himself.  
Surely it would have been a simple matter for Paul to text him.  
Let him know. Unless ...... George couldn't rid himself of the horrible feeling that maybe Paul hadn't wanted to let him know. Wasn't bothered anymore. Didn't want to be in touch with George. Thoughts that tumbled through his head while he kept his face blank.  
Louise put down her shopping bags, patting her face with a hanky. It was a hot July. It seemed Liverpool either baked or drowned.  
"Yes, back." She looked closely at her son. She'd expected at least some iota of enthusiasm from him. After all, those two boys had been inseparable for many years.   
She chose not to comment though, aware that something had maybe happened as George rarely mentioned his old friend anymore. Live and let live had always been Louise's motto. Let the children come to her if they wanted an ear to talk to, otherwise let be.  
"I met his dad in Tesco's. Doing the weekly shop he was, on his own, poor chap. Such a shame." She shook her head remembering the tragedy that had hit that family. "Anyway ... yes, he said Paul's back. Came home a few weeks ago ......"  
She avoided repeating Jim's words about 'hasn't shifted his backside out of his room since he came home. Don't know if he thinks money grows on trees. Needs to get a bloody job.' He'd been a strict father who wanted to do the best for his boys. Hugs, Louise reckoned, had probably not been on his list of to do's.  
She'd paused, unaware, and became conscious of George watching her closely.  
"He might need a friend" she said softly. "I don't think things are very easy at home."

 

George had stood at the door of Forthlin Road with mixed feelings.  
Paul had never contacted him. It had been two days since his mam had given him the news and he'd wondered, and thought, and checked his phone. Why should he go? If Paul couldn't be bothered ...... But his mam's words niggled. Which is precisely what she had probably wanted them to do. Raising his hand to knock the familiar door he felt a sense of deja vu. Paint was peeling. Weeds were beginning to grow from underneath the step. This house had used to be immaculate. Now it appeared tired. It was that tiny little thing that strengthened George's resolve, and he rapped smartly on the door.

It was opened almost immediately by Paul's father, pinny round his waist, tea towel in hand, looking worn and irritable and ready to reject any uncalled for visitors, and it took a moment for him to recognise George. Once the penny dropped there was a hint of a smile and the frown vanished.  
"Well, well .... stranger."  
George nodded. "Hullo. Is Paul in?"  
The elder McCartney seemed to sag at the sound of his eldest son's name, his frame crumpling in on itself.  
"He's in his room, where he's been since he came home." The old man turned back, heading towards the kitchen, leaving the door wide. "Y' know where that is, don't y'? Should do by now."  
George hesitated, then stepped inside, closing the door quietly behind him, and headed up the stairs, turning to his left and Paul's door, which was closed. Should he ... knock?  
Just go in? Knock and ... go in? Should he even feel like this? Jittery, unsure? Paul was, after all, an old friend, and they'd shared so much in their time. So many experiences, all tightly bound up with their love of music. Squaring his shoulders, George knocked once and turned the handle.

The familiarity of the room struck him immediately. Nothing had changed. Same curtains, same bedspread, same smell.   
Paul looked up from where he was perched on his bed, startled, astonished to see George.   
He'd not told anyone he was back. He hadn't wanted to. He'd been so embarrassed.  
He'd just wanted to hide away from everyone and everything.  
Especially responsibilities.  
Especially his dad.  
A flood of emotions drenched him, and he shot to his feet.  
"George?"  
George nodded, garnering the semblance of a smile.  
"Hiya. Me mam said you were back, an' ... an' ..." he shrugged, stuffing his hands into his jeans pockets " ....well, so ... I came."  
They were inches apart. George had forgotten how small Paul's room was. And they were no longer schoolboys but grown men. Near enough to touch one another. George could feel Paul's breath, see each individual eyelash, a tiny spot on his chin which he'd missed when shaving. The familiarity of it all was overwhelming ... as was the sadness.  
Paul was sad. George could see it, feel it, taste it. And George was glad he'd come.

 

Ringo was busy at the table, hairdressing magazines spread out everywhere, scissors in hand cutting out random heads, glue, paper and a mug of beer near. John raised his eyebrows quizzically but didn't comment immediately as Ringo got in first, looking up with a broad smile.  
"Hey! How was your date with Cyn?"  
"Not a date, Rings, just a catch up" John qualified swiftly, then nodded. "Good. T'was good, good to see her. Er ... what y'doin' by the way?"  
John slumped down in a chair, pulling it round first so that he was next to Ringo, surveying the organised mess with puzzled eyes.  
Ringo waved his hand airily. "I'm making some posters of different hairstyles. Sometimes, y'know, when girls come in they don't know what they want an' they sit there tryin' to explain. Now ... if they can go to a poster an' say 'that's what I want' it makes it so much easier for me."  
John nodded, digesting the information. That figured. Clever guy, eh, to think of that.  
Which reminded him.  
"Brian's asked me if I can come up with an idea."  
Ringo paused in the process of decapitating a model's head. "Oh yeah?"  
John patted his pocket for cigarettes, remembered he no longer smoked, and instead took a swig of Ringo's beer.  
"Yeah. Apparently ... so he says ... we've a fair bit of competition an' he wondered if I could think of anything to pull the punters in. Must admit ... I'm a bit stumped. Been thinkin', on and off, y'know, but ..." he shrugged, eyeing Ringo's efforts. "Don't suppose you can think of anything?" he enquired hopefully, feeling Ringo's searching eyes on him.  
"Not off hand, mate" Ringo said breezily "but I'll think about it, I will. Honest."  
"Mmmm. Appreciate that. So ... one big poster or lots?"  
Ringo's grin was wide. "Think I got a bit carried away. Too many for one. Reckon I'll make a few and dot 'em round the salon."  
"D'you get many guys come in and ask for things?"  
Ringo considered John's question as he carefully cut around a head, tip of pink tongue sticking out, blue eyes never shifting off what he was doing.  
"Er ... yeah ... occasionally. Blokes are pretty easy, though. Tend to stick to what they like." Ringo gave a snort of amusement, thinking of one of his customers, and John looked at him curiously.  
"What? What's so funny?"  
Ringo carefully placed down the decapitated model's head on a neat pile and glanced at John, a smile curving his lips.  
"Just thinking about George. Y'know ... that guy you met that came to hear Louis's band and said they were shite ....."  
John nodded. Hearing the name didn't bother him, he was pleased to discover. Previously he would have leapt to Louis's defence.  
" ... well ... y'know ... he never changes his hairstyle. It's always just almost onto his shoulders. Proper old fashioned seventies style, but ... that's how he likes it. He'll come in and say 'just a bit off.' And when he goes out he looks the same as when he came in."  
John nodded, feeling companionably close to Ringo at that present moment. Of course he recalled George. Lanky guy, longish brown hair, worked in a music shop.  
Ringo began cutting out again, intent on his job, and John almost felt dismissed. Not in a bad way ... it was just they'd said what they had to say and that was it. But John didn't want the conversation to end. Tonight he felt particularly chatty, so he searched for a topic they could continue, and landed on the guy Ringo had just mentioned.  
"George plays, doesn't he?"  
Ringo paused, momentarily confused, as his attention had switched fully back onto his cutting out, and it took a second for his thoughts to catch up.  
"Yeah, yeah he does" Ringo surveyed the head he'd just cut out critically, and snipped off a superfluous piece. "Guitar, he is. Bloody good too."   
Putting down his scissors he nodded in the direction of the fridge. "Wanna beer?"  
John's smile was bright. "Wouldn't say no." He secured himself a can and sat back down, pulling the ring open. "What kind?"  
"Huh?" Ringo was ... suspicious? No, that, he decided was the wrong word. Wondering. Wondering why John was so verbal suddenly.  
"Guitar, Ringo. What kind does he play?"  
Ringo rolled his eyes. "The normal kind. Six strings, y'know."  
John chuckled. "Nah. Lead, bass. Rhythm?"  
Ringo shrugged. George played, that was all he knew. He'd heard him. "Dunno. He just sort of ... does things."  
"On his own?"  
Ringo nodded, filling his own glass up from some of John's can. "Yeah. He used to have a friend he played with, he told me. They met when they were young. Wrote their own songs, an' all." Briefly Ringo shut his eyes, remembering. George had been very nostalgic at the time when he'd related this information to Ringo. "Think he hoped they could make a career out of it, but ....."  
Ringo trailed off, his eyes scanning his cutting out and piles of paper.  
John waited. And waited.  
"But?" he prompted.  
Ringo blinked. "Oh! Yeah. Well, his friend went off to university and that was it. It didn't happen."  
Well, that was boring, wasn't it. No fairytale story, no satisfying ending.  
John hiccuped. "Sorry. Oh, right. Sort of unrequited love, then, eh?"  
Ringo moved one head into another pile. Should he put all the curly ones together or split them up?  
"Hmmm?"  
"Unrequited love. Him and his friend."  
"George is straight, John" Ringo said blandly.  
"Nah, I didn't mean that, I meant ... ah, never mind."  
"His friend came back." No ... mix 'em up. Some curly, some straight. All short, though.  
"Oh, right." John perked up. Maybe a happy ending after all.  
Ringo swept them all together. Maybe he'd think about it all tomorrow when he was fresher.  
"Yeah. They live together. Got a flat in Aigburth. I think his friend works at a newspaper shop ... no, hang on. No, he doesn't. He used to. George was telling me he's recently got a job. Central Library, if I remember right. Would you mix up the long styles with the short or keep to one definite pattern?"  
"One definite pattern."  
John was adamant.  
"What's his name?"  
"Huh?"  
"George's friend. What's his name?"  
Ringo frowned. "Why?"  
"Curious, is all."  
Ringo shrugged. "Dunno ... oh, hang on .. it's Phil or something like that."  
"Phil?"  
"Yeah. No. No, it ain't Phil. Something like that though."   
Ringo suddenly clicked his fingers. "Paul. That's it. He's called Paul."

 

George had gone to work at Moore's Music when he was eighteen, not long after Paul had gone to uni. It had been an old-fashioned shop with upright pianos and scores and books of pre-war classics that had gathered dust. The old gentleman .... Henry Moore .... was finally retiring and handing the whole thing over to his beloved grandson, who, apart from being a brilliant pianist, also happened to love guitar and seventies groups like The Eagles. From him George had picked up lots of tips and hints and was beginning to excel at lead guitar solos. They put all the old, rarely bought music, on a separate shelf, and hung guitars on the wall and offered lessons on various instruments, calling on local teachers to supply their expertise. The business boomed and old Henry retired to live in Blackpool, bemused at the turn of events his old shop had taken but proud to know that it was succeeding in what he called 'this modern world'.

So many times, when practising at home, George would miss Paul, wishing his old friend was there. Occasionally they'd ring one another, or catch up when Paul was home, and George would show Paul what he'd been working on, talking excitedly of the time when Paul would be back for good and they could pick up where they left off. If Paul didn't ... or couldn't ... quite share George's enthusiasm, the young man never noticed.

Paul knew that a different life was being mapped out for him. Graduate. Do a P.G.C.E. Become a teacher.  
It was daunting. Depressing.  
He'd rather not think about it.  
But he couldn't let his dad down.  
It was expected.  
Meanwhile, he tried to share George's enthusiasm, and would sit with borrowed guitar in hand ... his own was in his room at uni .... playing upside down all the riffs George showed him.

Then, at the beginning of Paul's third year, something happened. George didn't know what, but something did. The phone calls dropped off. Texts were none existent.  
Paul stopped coming home.

 

"Have you seen the new lecturer?"  
He could hear Hattie's excited voice before he even reached the lecture room. In fact, it could probably be heard halfway down the Oxford Road, Paul reckoned.  
There was a quieter, but nonetheless, still lively response from another one of the girls in Paul's class.   
He hugged his books closer to him, balancing them on his hip while he eased his rucksack off his shoulder, half an ear to the conversation going on up ahead. New lecturer?  
Right. Well, let's hope he was as good as the one who'd, obviously, just left was supposed to have been. Paul had chosen 19th Century Children's Literature as one of his options because, one, he loved it and, two, the obviously now gone lecturer had a cracking reputation. Oh well. Just his luck.  
"Old Briney's gone, then" said a voice in his ear.  
Paul turned to smile at one of his friends.  
"Apparently."  
"Right. Well, let's hope this guy is as good."

 

Paul slid into his usual seat. Two thirds of the way down the room. A view of the sky from the window. The tips of the trees, newly planted, just about visible, beginning to turn from green to red to orange. He almost dropped everything, trying, as usual, to carry too much because he'd been too lazy to go back to his digs at lunchtime. The resulting clatter of books spilling onto the floor caused a few students to look round, a few chuckles and comments being thrown his way.

Paul dropped to his knees to recover them when a pair of highly polished pair of tan brogues came into his vision.  
He blinked, and ran his eyes higher.  
Skin tight jeans around a pair of long, very fit, legs.  
He blinked again, and looked up, meeting the owner.  
Long dark hair tied back in a pony tail, open necked white shirt under a check jacket, and a pair of sparkling green blue eyes regarding him with amusement.  
"Are you having a problem?"  
Paul shot to his feet, discovering he was the same height as the owner of those shoes and jeans, and met the gaze of the lecturer.  
And that was when Paul felt it.  
Sharply.  
A quick assessment of him.  
Those eyes roved over his face and body as he stood there, clutching the books he'd been able to reach, and in that moment he was claimed, though he'd never been aware of the fact that he was for sale.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really struggled to update this. Partly short of ideas, mainly life has got in the way. This fic will eventually be finished. Comments appreciated.

38%.  
38%???  
There had to be a mistake. Surely.  
The figure burnt into Paul's brain as he stared unbelievingly at it, willing it to change.  
It was wrong. It had to be.  
He glanced around the lecture room at his classmates.   
They were smiling, chatting .... unconcerned.  
Tom, who'd handed out the marked essays, was just sliding into his seat, the final remaining essay, his own, between his fingers.  
No one seemed bothered.  
No one.  
Paul glanced again at the percentage that was boldly written on the last page of his essay, hoping ... praying ... he'd seen it wrong.  
He'd never been much good at figures.  
He must have read it wrong.

It stared defiantly back at him.  
38%.

"Y'okay Paul?" someone whispered behind him.  
He slammed his papers closed swiftly, unable to admit failure.  
"Yeah" he whispered back.  
He didn't even know who'd spoken.

It had to be a mistake. It HAD to be.  
Paul was clever, and on top of that he worked hard. His marks were consistently in the seventy percent bracket, even if there had been the odd slip. He was in line to get a Two two, he knew that ... maybe even, with more effort, a First.  
But this????   
This???

What had he done wrong?  
He'd applied himself the same as he always did.  
He'd been reasonably confident that he'd get a good mark.  
He'd had no reason to suspect otherwise.  
Even with a new lecturer.

New lecturer.  
Paul glanced up, and found he was being watched.  
Brendan's piercing eyes were observing him intently.  
No one else existed.

Paul's eyes dropped to the essay again and he fingered it, bemused, flipping back to the opening page.  
In neat writing at the bottom, in pencil, that could so easily be erased, was written 'My room, lunchtime'.  
It reminded Paul of the dreaded 'See me' written in red on the bottom of his maths books.  
He glanced up. Brendan was still watching him, a tiny smile lurking at the corners of his mouth, seeking assurance that Paul had seen and understood.  
Whatever ... the lecturer nodded, smiling ... and his eyes released Paul's gaze, skimming over the rest of his students.

Paul's confidence plummeted.  
What had he done wrong?

 

At least Brian's request for ideas had got John's nose out of books for a few minutes as he gave the 'problem', as he deemed it, some thought. Out of the bus windows he glanced at other cafes and bars as they drove by. What did they do to attract clientele?  
Special offers?  
Two meals for the price of one??  
Bloody hell ... he reckoned Brian would go out of business doing that.  
Free child's meal?  
No good ... children didn't come to their kind of cafe bar.

He shifted, crossing his other leg over, watching the platform carefully as the bus drew up to a stop on the high street in Aigburth.  
Waiting for that familiar person to get on.  
Anticipating.  
John licked his dry lips.  
Hmm ... could have missed him today if he'd not been concentrating.  
He was wearing a black leather jacket and was looking ... looking rather ....phwoar .... stop it !!!!!... John switched his glance determinedly to the window of the bus.  
Then he saw it.  
Books.  
Piled in the window of a rather quaint tea shop.  
A book cafe.  
A ... book ... cafe .....

A BOOK CAFE.

A jolt of surprise, inspiration, .... he could have leapt to his feet shouting 'Hallelujah' ... and almost missed Mr Camel Coat now leather jacketed passing by, glancing at him with a rather quirky, if somewhat nervous, smile.  
Elated, jubilant, his head buzzing with ideas, John beamed brightly back.  
The young man's feet stumbled slightly, surprised, as he paused, his smile growing, reaching his eyes.  
John's smile grew even more.  
He looked joyously at Paul.  
"I've just had an idea" he explained.  
Paul's smile lit up his face. Ideas he understood.  
For that one moment ... that one, wonderful, heart stopping moment ... they were connected.

Then .... "Aye, come on, muppet, move on down the bus. Regular habit of yours, innit, mop head."  
Hearing the familiar accent, the familiar words, the familiar scenario, Paul blushed, and shuffled on.  
One day ... one day, he really must just get on ... get on and, well ... get on. Down the bus, as it were.

 

While feeling the embarrassment of Mr. Camel Coat at the usual scenario, nonetheless John's whole concentration had switched to his idea.  
An idea which grew in the making.  
By the time he got off the bus, it was fully fledged, and John was feeling like a proud father of a newborn child.

 

"I have an idea" John announced grandly as he arrived at Brian's Place.  
The owner of the establishment looked up, startled, his visage changing to hopeful as he picked up on John's enthusiasm.  
A few minutes later, he wasn't so sure, a frown creasing his handsome, soft featured face as he heard John's idea.  
"Books??"  
John looked closely at him. "Yeah, books."  
"And ... you think that will work?"  
Brian really couldn't get his head around it.  
And John was looking at him like he was thick.  
"Yeah, I do."  
Brian pinched the bridge of his nose.  
"I don't know if our clientele ....."  
"They're pretentious."  
Brian blinked. "They're ... what?"  
"Pretentious" John sneered. "Up their own arses. Think they're intellectual. Superior. Right ... so ... give 'em chance to prove that. Make this a book cafe. Y'know ... the classics ... the ones they won't dare to admit they haven't read. And the contemporary ones. Like ... the Booker prizewinners and that. Stock 'em, like a library. Loan 'em out. Have customers bring their own in for loan. They won't dare admit they've not read half of 'em. Form a reading group. A discussion group. A book club. On certain lunchtimes and evenings we'll do a literary circle ..."  
"Who ... who will lead it" Brian asked faintly.  
"I will."  
Brian gulped.  
He wasn't sure if, with John's intolerance, he might lose rather than gain customers.  
"An' what's more ..."  
Brian held his breath ...  
"... we could do some live music."  
Brian closed his eyes.  
"But we don't know anyone who ..."  
"I do."  
John recalled Ringo's friend George, and then he had a friend too who was into music and, what was more, worked at the Central Library.  
What was his name?  
Phil?  
No ... no, not Phil.  
Paul.  
"I know a couple of guys" said John confidently.

 

Paul swallowed nervously before knocking on the door numbered 14/ FA in the Arts Faculty building. He could feel a bead of sweat trickling down the back of his neck, worming it's way down below the neck of his t-shirt. He wriggled uncomfortably, his ears straining to detect any movement behind the solid wooden door. After an uncomfortable pause, he heard a soft 'come in'. Swallowing again, trying to push down the lump that was in his throat, he turned the handle.

The smell of old books, furniture polish, and ancient furniture met him .... and his lecturer, head bent, scribbling away at something on his desk. After closing the door behind him, Paul stood there, unsure what to do.  
Should he say hello?  
Or was that ... just ... stupid.  
After all, Brendan had called him to come in, so he must know he was there.  
Or that someone was standing there.  
He shuffled his feet, and nervously thrust his fingers into his jeans pockets.  
Still the lecturer hadn't looked up.  
That lump in Paul's throat was back ... and it had brought with it a tickle.  
A dry tickle.  
He was going to have to cough.  
He tried to swallow instead, but the two actions collided and he emitted a choking sound.  
Actually, he sounded like he was being strangled, and that did at least cause the lecturer to look up, pausing, pen poised, one eyebrow inquisitively raised, a hint of amusement on his features.   
He pointed to the flagon on his desk.  
"Water?"  
Red faced and struggling to catch his breath, Paul nodded, moving towards the liquid, at the same time as Brendan swiftly poured a glass, handing it over. Their fingers brushed, and a jolt of electricity surged between them.  
Paul almost choked again as he took a gulp of the clear liquid, managing to spill some down his chin and onto his t-shirt. Embarrassed, he swiped his face with the back of his hand, aware, at the same time, of Brendan moving round the desk to stand in front of him.  
This time there was a hint of concern in the voice at variance with the quizzical smile.  
"Are you okay?"  
Paul nodded, not trusting his voice, his cheeks by now a flaming red.  
He felt the glass removed from his hand, and he blinked through watering eyes.  
The lecturer was now standing directly in front of him, a mere few inches away, surveying him intently.  
In fact, Paul felt as if he was being stripped.  
He had to ... say something ... do something ... because Brendan wasn't ... didn't ... hadn't ...  
"I ..er .. you said to come and see you ..." Paul faltered.   
Those eyes were watching him intently, as if waiting for his next move, a hint of amusement in their depths.  
Silence seemed to stretch on ... and on .. and ..  
"I did."  
Paul almost heaved a sigh of relief at being spoken to, he felt so uncomfortable under that piercing gaze.  
"The ... mark ... my essay ..."  
One of Brendan's eyebrows twitched dismissively, and he moved closer to Paul.  
So close Paul could feel his breath ... a heartbeat's distance ...  
"Was nothing .." the response was husky, and Paul caught his breath.  
"But .. but you put .." Why were his thoughts clouding ... why was he so fucking uncomfortable .. so ... so nervous ...  
He took a step back, and swift as lightening Brendan's hand shot out, grabbing the nearest, most secure part of Paul he could reach ... which happened to be the waistband of his jeans, and Paul felt himself be tugged back, closer than ever, Brendan's eyes never having lost their connection with his own.  
"An excuse ..." the voice was liquid, churning emotions in Paul's stomach as he fought to hold on to reality.  
"But ..."  
"Drop it, Paul" came the command, and he found himself tugged yet nearer till he was practically standing on Brendan's feet. "I needed to see you." That sensual voice became a whisper again. "You're a clever boy ... 'twas a slip of the pen ... should have been seventy eight ...." the voice diminuendoed, the breath ghosting across Paul's neck, causing the fine hairs to stand on end " ... but I wanted to see you ... you, yourself ... not the student ..." fingers slipped lower, under his waistband, and Paul couldn't help a small gasp that escaped his lips, the lecturer's voice hardly there, a whisper .... curling itself around, temptation, promises, lust and pleasure entwined .." ... you ... the moment I saw you ..."   
then a hand was on him and Paul melted with a groan, his mind clouding to anything else around.  
"I'm ... I'm not ..." he tried to protest, emotions swimming through muddy waters.  
"No one ever is" came the husky response "until they try." 

 

John was inspired.   
He felt like he could take on the whole world.  
His enthusiasm propelled him through that day, even if his mind wasn't particularly on his work.   
His colleagues kept collecting the small scraps of paper they found everywhere with random ideas jotted down, and put them in a neat pile in the kitchen, nodding at each other in amusement. He shared his enthusiasm with anyone that came within reach of him that day, and, to Brian's surprise, a lot of their regular customers seemed delighted and equally enthusiastic. Turned out one regular customer had a friend who was an editor of a biblio magazine that she might ... just might ... be able to persuade to do a talk one evening.

John couldn't wait to tell Ringo.  
And, of course, enquire about his friend George.  
And his friend, ... not Phil ... no. Paul.  
That was it.  
Paul.

 

"So, these are the preliminary plans timewise. What we need to do,contact, have in place."  
Millie placed the organised planner in front of Paul on the table in the staffroom, and paused, nibbling her thumb thoughtfully.  
Paul's dark eyes were already rapidly scanning the dates and potential events, putting them into little boxes in his mind. It was important to him ... no, imperative ... that he was fully across this ... this .... thing ... that had been his idea.

A face popped suddenly into his memory.  
"I've just had an idea."  
Mr. Paperback Man's face, smiling. Really smiling.  
Really, Paul chided himself, he didn't know why he was so attracted to him.  
After all, he had a girlfriend.  
And Paul wasn't looking for a relationship anyway.  
No, he wasn't, no SiRrEe, not ever minding what his dad thought, or EmMa ... 

"... would have more impact."  
He came back to earth with a jolt.  
Really, sometimes, he was impossible.  
Even he thought he was, so .. that didn't add up to much, did it?  
And Millie was watching him speculatively.  
Unable to hide the hint of a smile.  
Fuck, they really had him sussed, didn't they?

"Sorry" he mumbled, not even trying to excuse himself.  
Her smile broadened. "It's okay. It's a lot to take in, isn't it? Anyway, I was saying ... it was suggested that we get flyers about it to spread around, and maybe a few big posters to go up in the library windows and around town."  
Paul felt a burst of excitement. His idea was going to be plastered all over the town? Now, that was something to tell his dad about.  
"But we need a designer." Millie's eyes took on a hazy glaze. "Someone who could take these ideas and bring them to life on paper ... really sell them. I'm not sure who to approach that could ..."  
"I can do it!" Paul burst out excitedly, then glanced behind himself. Had he just said that, or was someone else ??? ......  
There was a long pause while Paul held his breath and Millie surveyed him cautiously. Cautiously but not, Paul noted, dismissively.  
Indeed, Millie was thinking. This young member of staff had already surprised them in a couple of ways, and if he said he could then ... she had a pretty good idea he probably could.  
She smiled warmly.  
"Okay, Paul, why don't you come up with a few designs and let me see them? There's not a lot on this afternoon. I'm sure Emma can handle the junior section herself, so take the time to have a go, why don't you? I'll bet your friend can probably provide you with most of the materials you need ... indeed, working in the archive section would probably be the best bet. It's very quiet up there."  
No Emma? No ... Emma ... to contend with?? Wow! Paul breathed a sigh of relief.  
No, the rational part of his mind told him, just the teasing of Ivan to put up with instead.  
He could feel Millie's eyes still on him, watching, and he wondered how much she knew.  
About him.  
About Emma.  
"That ... that would be amazing" he breathed, and she smiled.

 

John couldn't wait to share his ideas with Ringo and hurtled into their house, pulling his scarf from round his neck, falling out of his shoes, and stopping to sweep up the post that was over the floor of the hall.   
"Bills, bills, bills" he muttered, scattering it all haphazardly onto the small table.  
Then paused.  
A postcard.  
A .. postcard???  
No one ever sent ... it couldn't .. no .. surely not .. and his hand was shaking.  
The writing, bold, scrawling, taking up all the page and the address area too.  
Posted from France.  
Something about ... coming home ... love Mum ...  
John slid down on to the floor, stunned.  
He'd not seen her for over three years.  
Three ... long ... years.  
No word.  
Not one.  
He thought she'd forgotten him.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for such a delay ... life is still so very busy but I'm trying to move on with this. Thank you for your patience those who are following. Comments and kudos appreciated.

Paul leaned back in his chair surveying his efforts with a critical eye, tip of tongue caught thoughtfully between his teeth. Behind him he could hear the tapping of lap top keys as Ivan quietly got on with his work. He had, Paul mused, been an excellent companion. He hadn't tried to talk to him or distract him, and had supplied him with a cup of tea and a biscuit at some point during the somnolent afternoon.

Somnolent. Paul rolled the word around his head. Made him think of lazy summer days, of bees buzzing, of eyelids closed and breezes rustling. He leaned further back on the chair, tilting it onto it's two back legs.

"How's it going?"

He jerked, startled, and almost tipped himself off the chair he'd leaned back on ... forgetting he'd leaned back on it.  
'Don't do that, Paul ... one of these days you'll have an accident' ... his mum's voice was so clear in his memory.

"Uh ... yeah ... okay. Getting there ..." he muttered, scrabbling inelegantly for footage.

Ivan hid an amused smile. He had a little slew of memories stashed away involving McCartney's day-dreaming from school days. One day, he reckoned, he might embarrass the lad with them ... maybe. One day.

Ivan stood up from his desk, stretching his long frame, easing muscles that were complaining from being in one position for far too long.  
"Can I see?"  
Paul glanced over at him, considering, but Ivan was already making his way towards the desk Paul had commandeered. Well ... no use saying no, he thought ... after all ... it wasn't a secret, or anything ... it was just ....  
Paul squirmed inside. Bit pushy of him, wasn't it, really, putting himself forward to do this. After all, he wasn't a qualified artist. He just liked drawing ....  
"These are good!"  
He blushed at the praise, and then hesitated ... Ivan had sounded surprised. Did he think Paul would have produced crap? Wasn't capable? Paul began to chew his lip, uncertain. He could feel Ivan's dark eyes on him, calculating, and Paul shifted his gaze away, trying to still the hammering that was going on in his chest.  
'You should put yourself forward more' .... that was George's voice. Urging him, egging him on. Now look what happened if he did. He felt flustered. He shouldn't have ... should have left Millie to sort some .....  
"Particularly this one" and Ivan was picking up the original sketch that Paul had done in soft pencil, a shaded image of a ship riding storm tossed waves, it's prow rising proudly, sails full blown.  
He chewed his finger, uncertain of how to cope with praise, his initial response to put himself down.  
"No, it's ... er, yeah, thanks, but ... but it's not right."  
Frowning, Ivan laid the sketch back down.  
"Not right? What's wrong with it?"  
Paul shifted his fingers to his hair and ran them through the dark locks distractedly.  
"It's, er, too ... too ... romantic. Too grown up. It's meant to catch children's eyes."  
"Oh." Ivan glanced again at the sketch. "Bloody good, though."  
Colour rose high in Paul's cheeks, and he started chewing his nails again.  
Ivan picked up the next one which caught his eye, which was brightly coloured, of a pirate complete with parrot on shoulder and volcanic island set against a brilliant blue sky.  
"Well, this one would catch kiddies eyes, I'd say" he offered, feeling he had to help out his old childhood friend somehow, seeing as he appeared to have lost the ability to hold a conversation.  
Relief shot through Paul like a bolt of electricity, and he looked hopefully up at Ivan.  
"You think so?"  
Ivan smiled. "Well, it screams buried treasure and adventure, doesn't it?"  
"Does it? Honest?"  
Ivan chuckled as he put it back down. "Well, you're the artist, Paul, but I'd say it does."  
Paul heaved a sigh. It sounded theatrical though obviously wasn't meant to be.  
"Oh, cheers .... that's what I was aiming for."  
"Well, got it in one, I'd say."  
Inspired, Paul pulled a couple of others out that he'd stashed underneath the pad.  
"What do you think of these then?"  
Still in bright primary colours, Ivan found himself looking at a picture of a tropical island complete with palm trees and a chest of jewels spilling like entrails across bright yellow sand, a map and spade discarded nearby. In the distance could be seen another volcanic island, cone pouring out smoke.  
On the next picture a humorous monkey sat, bedecked with pearls it had plucked from a treasure chest while in the background could be seen a shipwrecked boat.  
"These are brill, Paul ... really really good." Ivan felt he needed to reassure his old friend. He didn't know why, what had happened in Paul's life, but something .... something was definitely different about him. He had no idea what, or why, or who he could even ask, but .... something was different. He felt the young man stir, seeking assurance.  
"D'you think so? I picked those colours because ... well ... I felt that was what would attract a youngster."  
Ivan batted him on the side of his head with the two pieces of paper.  
"And you're not a youngster? Come on, Paul ... you're not that old."  
Paul chuckled. "Twenty four is not a youngster."  
"No, maybe not." Ivan's voice was suddenly serious. "But, all the same, it's not too far away from childhood that you can't recall what excited you, is it? Otherwise you wouldn't be doing this."

 

"What?"  
"She's ... she's coming home. After all these years. She's bloody coming back."  
John didn't know if he was excited or angry. Maybe ... maybe a bit of both.  
At the moment, though, he was annoyed. Annoyed that she'd stolen his thunder.  
He'd been excited to tell Ringo his news about his idea for a book cafe and the many inspiring avenues that had opened up to him, and now ... now the news of his mum had taken first place and he hadn't even told Ringo ... fuck, FUCK, ... not even told him about his ideas, because his mother ... his bloody mother ...   
"When?"  
"I ... I dunno. I dunno, do I? Because she'll just turn up when she feels like it, like she always does."  
Ringo fiddled awkwardly with his rings.  
He'd had a long day.  
A very long day.  
Involving a customer who'd demanded that her hair be cut short then hated it then wanted it put back (which of course you couldn't do and yes she knew that but still) ... wasn't happy and oh God he really wanted a beer and some chill time and now here was John with his fucking mother patience Ringo he told himself .....  
Ringo's stomach gave a tiny, hopeful growl and he winced, hoping John hadn't heard.  
"Can I help?"  
John glanced at him in puzzlement.  
Really what Ringo had meant was could I do anything now to help because I really am hungry and need to eat .......   
He didn't know where the next words came from.  
They'd been sitting there, in the queue, like a train at Lime Street waiting for it's chance to move.  
"I had an idea ...." he mumbled.  
Ringo blinked. Idea? For his mum?  
"The bar ... books ... and ...."  
Fuck! Fuck his mother taking all that inspiration and excitement away from him.  
He slumped down in his seat, mumbling as if to himself.  
" ... need the name ... that George ... and Phil ... that plays with him ...."  
"John?"  
"Ringo?"  
"Yeah?"  
"I'm tired."  
Ringo slumped too, despondent.  
"And hungry."  
Ringo shot up again.  
"Really?"  
John grinned suddenly.  
Bugger his mother.  
He'd had an idea and it was gonna be brilliant.  
"Yeah, really."

 

Over fish and chips procured from the local chippy, John tried hard to tell Ringo about his plan, and he attempted to put the same enthusiasm into explaining it that he had when putting it before Brian. But his mother kept getting in the way.  
She was occupying his head space.  
Almost all of it.

Running in circles in his mind, wearing ridiculously high heels, her red hair spread behind her as she whirled in circles, childish laughter ringing out.  
She made him think of a firefly, bright, vivid, darting everywhere, never staying.  
Never stopping.

John became aware of Ringo watching him from worried blue eyes, that sad dopey expression that only Ringo could pull off, and realised he'd stopped talking. Probably mid-sentence.

He heaved a sigh.  
"What am I gonna do about me mam, Rings?"

Although outwardly Ringo looked unfazed, inwardly his thoughts were whirling. How did he advise John?  
His mother, as he knew from past experience, had a bad habit of entering his life, offering him the moon, then running off with it herself, leaving John torn. Upset. Berating himself for not being an attractive enough son that his mother would want to stay around. 

Twice this had happened now during Ringo's time with John, and he didn't want to see it happen again. A bit of him ... a very BIG bit of him, actually ... wanted to tell John to tell his mam to bugger off. But he had a sneaky feeling that those were not the words that John wanted to hear. And he tried to put himself in John's shoes. If it was his mum and he'd not seen her for three years or more he knew he'd want to see her.  
Fortunately, his mother didn't bugger off to remote places finding herself.  
She still lived in the Dingle with an open door for her only son whenever he wanted to go home.  
And he loved her.

A forced throat clearing brought him back to the present, and now it was John watching him from narrowed brown eyes, searching ... hoping ... for advise.

"Well, we can always have her back here for afternoon tea" Ringo said, searching desperately for a solution.  
It was the first thing that came out of his mouth, and a split second later he realised the stupidity of it, given this was John's mam.

There was a moment's stunned silence, then John began to laugh.  
A titter at first, then a chortle, then he began to heave, tears streaming down his face.  
Unable to resist, drawn in by the laughter, Ringo joined in, until the two of them were howling.  
"Afternoon tea!!!! ...." John hiccuped, holding his stomach. God, he was so red, he could hardly breathe.   
"After ... after ... Hoooooooooo"  
Ringo gulped, choking on his euphoria, and promptly fell off the kitchen chair. He couldn't even get up, he was laughing so much, and John slithered off his chair and crawled over the floor tiles to join him, where they howled and howled. Each time one tried to sober up, the other would start him off again.  
Finally, exhausted, John heaved a great sigh, and wiped his face with the edge of his old brown pullover.  
"Fuckin' afternoon tea he says...."  
" ... shurrup, John ...hic ..."  
"Prosecco, more like."  
"Ahhhhhh ...." Ringo breathed out a gigantic breath.  
He had no energy for anything else.  
He turned his head to look at John next to him, leaning back on the kitchen cupboards.  
"We could always get Earl Grey" he suggested wickedly, and John began to shake with laughter again.  
"Stoppit, stoppit, don't you fuckin' dare ... I got no breath left and me lungs hurt."  
John's face ached with laughing so much, and the whole scary thing of his mother coming home didn't seem so bad.  
Not if he had a friend like Ringo beside him.

 

They were almost ready for bed, watching the late night news on the telly, when John suddenly recalled his earlier question.  
"Hey, Rings?"  
Ringo started. He'd been dropping off to sleep .... something he did regularly in front of the screen. News couldn't have been very interesting, he summarised.  
"Yeah?"  
"D'you think that friend of yours would be interested?"  
Ringo blinked. Frowned. What was John on about? That mercurial mind of his had a habit of running a few topics in one conversation and Ringo never felt he could quite keep up.  
And he was sleepy.  
"Wha'?" he drawled unenthusiastically.  
The excitement returning, John sat up straighter, as if to imbue Ringo with some energy too.  
"That friend of yours, that guitarist ... George, is it? D'you reckon he and his mate'd be willing to do the odd evening ... like, on a regular basis? So people get to know?"  
Ringo stifled an enormous yawn.   
"Dunno. I'll have t' ask him."  
John wriggled impatiently.  
"When?"  
Ringo cracked open one of his eyes with Herculean effort.  
"When I see him."  
John hid a sigh. "An' when will that be?"  
Ringo grunted and shifted in his seat, his mind clouded with sleep.  
"Look, I'll try an' catch him tomorrer, alright? But ... can y' ... y'know ... mebbe get a few more details for me? Cause he'll ask."  
He would ask. Ringo knew that without a doubt. George didn't do vague ideas.  
John slumped back.  
"Well ... I can't tell you more than I have already. It's up to them, really. If they've got a night that suits them."  
This time the yawn couldn't be swallowed.  
"Yeah .... ahhhhhhhh ..... 'kay ..... tomorrer."  
And with that John had to be content.

 

Paul stood at the side of Millie's desk as she looked through the drawings he'd produced, feeling like a child at the side of a teacher waiting to be reprimanded.  
'Would you like to explain, Paul, why the page of sums has drawings all around it? Drawings of? ..... ' he'd shuffled his feet, embarrassed ' .... of .... trees?' His teacher had looked at him, puzzled. 'Are these trees?'  
" .... really good, Paul."  
He started, blinking. "Sorry? I mean ... pardon?"  
Millie hid a smile.  
"These are excellent. I think we should make posters out of them, and send this one round to the schools with the information on it. Can you do lettering?"  
"Er ... yeah."  
"Good. That's good. I'll collate the details and once I've condensed them you can maybe do some fancy but legible lettering, yes?"  
Paul nodded, too overcome to reply.   
She liked them. She actually liked them.  
"I must say, though ...." her gaze fell back on the pictures, and she withdrew the original pencil sketch "I particularly love this one. While it wouldn't be any good as a poster to attract children, it's a stunning little drawing. What made you do this one?" She glanced up quizzically at Paul.  
He ran his fingers through his hair, messing up what had originally been a tidy mop.  
"Oh, I ... er ... it was ... erm ... " he took a deep breath, and launched in. "When I had the original idea, it was what I envisaged. A sailing ship riding the waves."  
Her smile was bright, encouraging.  
"Well, it's beautiful. Maybe we could have some bookmarks printed of it on card, and sell them."  
Paul's face flushed red then white then back to red.  
"Ohhh" was all he could find.  
Wait till he got home.  
Just wait till he got home and told George.

 

"So, what is it I'm asking?" Ringo queried as he emptied a mug of tea down his throat and snatched up his keys and wallet on his way out the door.  
"Would they be interested in playing ... a night of their own choosing, but preferably later on in a week rather than at the beginning 'cos, y'know, people don't tend to go out on a Monday, do they?"  
Ringo hesitated, scratching his nose. He hadn't thought about that fact.  
"Hadn't thought about that fact" he admitted.  
John gave a sly smile, scratching his bed head.  
"Ah, not clever, like me."  
Ringo grunted amicably, a droll smile crossing his features.  
"Well, we can't all be well blessed. I'm not promising, mind ...." he added as he shoved his wallet in the back pocket of his jeans " .... depends how busy I am, but if I get chance I'll pop down the music shop, okay?"  
John nodded. "Appreciate that, mate."  
Ringo nodded back, his mind already drifting to the day ahead of him.  
"Well, see y' tonight. Are we eatin' together?"  
John perked up. "Can do. Want me to cook?"  
A smile split Ringo's face.  
"That would be fab. See y' later."  
And he was gone.

John slumped back against the kitchen chair and took the postcard out of the pocket of his joggers. It was somewhat bent from his movements, and beginning to look dog-eared from a lot of handling. He kept looking at it, unable to believe his own eyes.  
"Fuckin' comin' home" he murmured, staring at it. "After all this time. So, what d'you reckon, Mimi?" He raised his voice, as if addressing her presence. " Told y', has she? Has she?"

 

"Lynette, do me a favour an' hold the salon for a bit, can y', while it's quiet?"  
A dainty blonde looked up, comb between her teeth, and nodded, then turned back to the customer whose hair she was styling.  
"Goin' anywhere nice?" she asked in broadest Scouse, twirling a strand of hair around some straightening irons.  
"Nah! Just nippin' down to the music shop."  
She raised a delicately pencilled eyebrow.   
"Oooh ... say hello to that nice Georgie for me."  
Ringo's mouth quirked. "Georgie?"  
She hunched her shoulders and giggled.  
Ringo shook his head, took a swift glance round to make sure everything was okay, and stepped out the door.

The salon was his pride and joy. He'd always loved messing with hair from the day he'd been old enough to twist his mam's dark locks through his fingers. He'd never done well academically at school, due to prolonged periods of illness and lack of interest on his part, but when he found himself at the local college in a class of twittering girls and just one other boy who wore startlingly colourful clothes, he discovered himself. And his vocation. He loved chatting to his customers about their day, their lives, and he had such a warm personality that his clientele grew and grew until one day he flexed his muscles, spread his wings, and rented a little shop, set it up as a salon, hired Lynette that he knew from college, and like a flock of birds his customers followed. A warm welcome was always given at Scissors and Co. The Co being, of course, Lynette. It was hard on their two own. Busy. Soon he would be looking to take on another member of staff. His little business was growing. Yes, he was satisfied. Smugly so. The only little niggle in his otherwise perfect life had been the lack of a partner. Females seemed to like him but ... as a friend. He didn't seem to have the personality that inspired a deeper relationship, and, occasionally, he'd wonder why. If he ever stopped to think about it. Which he did, sometimes. Quite a lot, actually .... but only in little two second bursts.

Now John .... a broad smile crossed his face as his feet beat a steady tattoo down the wet pavement.  
John fell in and out of love faster than he changed his bed sheets.  
And each one would be 'the one'.  
Disappointment after disappointment followed for the auburn haired guy.  
And here they were, both nearing their twenty-seventh birthdays this year, and nary a settled commitment in sight.  
Well, Ringo consoled himself, they had each other ... if not in THAT way. And, really, in today's big scheme of things, twenty seven wasn't old.  
Pretty young, actually.  
A spring chicken, in fact.

Ringo paused outside the door of Moore's Music and glanced through the rain spattered windows, between stacked keyboards and hanging guitars. In the shop interior he could just about make out George, recognising immediately the long brown hair. No customers either at the moment. Excellent.  
Ringo bounced through the door with a 'ho ho ho' and George turned, startled, his face breaking into one of his slow grins as he recognised Ringo.  
"Hey! Not cutting people's heads off at the mo, then, eh?"  
"Nah. I'm here on a mission."  
He saw puzzlement cross George's face, and an inbuilt wariness.  
"Oh, aye?" The response was cautious.  
"Uh huh". Not to be dissuaded, Ringo leant on the counter, carefully pushing aside a box of harmonicas.  
"I've got a friend ..." he started.  
George raised an eyebrow.  
Well ... his unibrow, and Ringo couldn't help but recall John's nickname for him. He pushed down a giggle which threatened to rise, and ran his fingers over his hair to calm himself.  
"He, er .... he's looking for a couple of musicians " ........ George's brow(s) rose higher ... " and, well, he was asking about you. You and that friend of yours, y'know, Phil ..."  
"Paul" George quietly corrected.  
"Aye, that's the one. Paul. Would you be up for it?"  
George leaned on the counter the opposite side to Ringo, looking deep into his eyes.  
"Depends what 'it' is?"  
Flustered, Ringo pulled back a bit.  
He was never quite sure of George ... a bit of a dark horse. Sometimes very forthcoming with his opinions, sometimes deep, silent, like a still lake.  
He found he was blabbering. "It's John, y'know, that you've met ..."  
"The one with the pimply boyfriend" George stated.  
Ringo paused, blinking. Had Louis been pimply?  
"Er, yeah. He's not with him any more."  
George nodded. "Ah, right."  
There was a silence as Ringo scrabbled to find his thread again.  
"Right, yeah .... so. John. He works in this bar in town. A nice one, mind. And his boss asked him to come up with some ideas to boost business ...."  
"Is it crap, then? 'Cos you just said it was nice?"  
Ringo tutted. Almost. He did wish George would shut up and listen.  
"No! I mean, yes, it is nice, and no it's not crap. Just that the manager doesn't have a lot of idea, and there's a lot of competition."  
"It's crap, then" George stated blandly, seeming suddenly disinterested.  
"No, it's not, George. I know the guy that runs it and he's lovely, really nice. So ... John was asked to come up with ideas and he wants to turn it into a book cafe ..."  
"A book cafe??" George looked mystified.  
Ringo ignored him.  
".... and he had the idea of doing some live music one evening a week. It would be a regular booking, hoping to build a clientele, like ...."  
Ringo paused for breath, and was aware of the fact he had George's attention.  
"A regular booking?"  
Ringo crossed his fingers behind his back. He was pretty sure John had said that. Had he? Here was hoping ....  
"Yeah."  
"And ... we'd be paid????"  
George was watching Ringo very closely for his response to this.  
Ringo found he was re-running his conversation with John ... what had John said? I mean, surely you paid people for playing? It, was, after all, a job, yeah?  
"Well, I'd assume so ...."  
"Never assume anything, Ringo" George butted in.  
Hope plummeted in Ringo's breast.  
He thought he'd got them, and ...  
"Tell y' what ...."  
He looked back up, hopeful ....  
"Ask how much he's offering for two forty minute sets and I'll chat to Paul."  
A grin split Ringo's face. "Brill!! That's brill. Appreciated, mate."  
George suddenly looked thoughtful. Morose, almost.  
"Don't get yer hopes up. Paul might take a lot of persuading."  
This time it was Ringo's eyebrow that rose in query.   
"Oh? Why's that?"  
"He ain't done anything like that for a long time."  
"I thought you said he was good?"  
George leaned away from the counter, straightening up as a customer came in through the door.  
"Oh, he is. Very good. But he might not agree. I'll see what I can do, okay?"  
George was already mentally dismissing Ringo as he focused on the browsing customer.  
"Really? Will you?"  
There must have been an urgency in Ringo's tone because George paused, looking steadily at him.  
"Yeah. I will. Find out how much we're being offered and I'll try and persuade Paul. Okay?"  
Ringo smiled, relief across his face.  
He'd done what he'd set out to do.  
"Okay."


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies ... I really am trying ... life is sooooo busy .... da da da .... enjoy.  
> Hope you can cope with the time shifts. Should be fairly obvious ... I think!

As the door swung to behind the departing customer, George leaned onto the counter, tapping his teeth with the blunt end of a pencil that dangled between his long, lazy fingers, his mind swiftly returning to the brief conversation with Ringo. Well, it had never LEFT his mind, actually. It had been buzzing around at the back of his head like a fly shut in a window. A frisson of excitement caused the usually calm boy a momentary quiver, a twitch, a nervous tic. He tapped his toe in time with the pencil. To play. To play again. But would he do it? Would Paul do it? They'd played together when at school. Had the odd gig when they'd been paid in cash. He still recalled the excitement of counting out the coins ... the notes ... watching Paul silently mouth the numbers as he'd carefully and methodically split the dosh between them. And the smile ... the gleam in Paul's eyes as he'd looked up at George, locking gazes with him. They'd done that themselves. Earned it. On their own. And to get paid for doing what they loved doing ... playing.

A long time ago ....

George sighed and pushed himself away from the counter with more force than was necessary. Preparing for Paul's refusal. He muttered to himself under his breath. He so missed playing with Paul ... not that they still didn't have the odd jam session occasionally, perched on Paul's bed, papers strewn everywhere, fingers finding the chords, the notes, remembering the words of the songs they'd used to play. But those occasions were far and few between. George huffed to himself. Sometimes ... sometimes he wanted to get hold of Paul and shake him. Rattle him until the music dropped out of him in a spiralling waterfall of notes. Stop him from holding it all within him ... ignoring it ... denying himself. Denying himself what he was so obviously born to do.

He'd arrived at Paul's house, clutching his guitar, glowing face, bright and eager, to be told Paul had gone. Left. Left already for university.   
'Freshers' week' his dad had said, eyeing the guitar with some alarm.  
George had stood there in the mild September sunshine, blinking stupidly at Paul's father.  
"But .. but we were gonna practice. He said ..."  
Mr. McCartney had been abrupt."He's not going to have time for stuff like that now, laddie. He's going to be studying."  
The inference wasn't lost on George.  
Music ... was .... a .... waste.  
A waste of time.  
Or, more specifically, Paul's time.  
It was so obvious on Paul's first few visits home when George had suggested a session.  
Paul had looked uncomfortable. Squirmed guiltily.  
But he was his father's obedient son.  
'I don't really have much time for that anymore, Geo'.  
The phrase was too parroted, the words falling unnaturally from Paul's lips, and George had looked at him dumbfounded.  
Disbelieving.

George had tried playing on his own. But he missed Paul. Missed his company, his ideas, his .... sheer musicality. The way the lad seemed to be able to pluck notes, melodies, harmonies, phrases, key changes, out of thin air.  
Without Paul there was no spark.  
Without Paul there was no reason.

'I don't hear you play your guitar much nowadays' his mam had commented casually, leaving an opening, in the way she did, for the conversation to be developed or not, as the case may be.  
'It's no fun without Paul' he'd admitted.  
She'd smiled sadly. What could she say to that? Well, go play on your own then?  
There'd been pressure on the older McCartney boy to do well, of that she was all too well aware. His father, on the rare occasions they bumped into one another, had been stern, unbending. Louise could see behind the facade, though. It hadn't been easy since the death of his wife, and money had been tight. Northern pride forbade that he should admit that ... the fact that his wife had been the main breadwinner. It gnawed at his innards, caused him to be sharper than usual with his two teenage sons. Particularly with the eldest.   
The lad with the soft features, the pretty eyes. The darling of his mother. He'd always been Mary's child. Always. And, in some twisted way, that fact had caused Jim to shove him away, casting insults, even as he cringed at doing so. And he saw the hurt flash in his son's dark eyes that were so like his mother's. And there was a strange satisfaction in that that Jim didn't query. Didn't want to delve into. And Louise had seen the armour her son's friend had started to build since the death of his mother, and it plagued her sorely. This boy had still been in need of cuddles and hugs, but they were no longer coming. It was stiff upper lip, and his aunties patting him on the back for 'being a brick' and 'putting on a brave face' in front of his younger brother, when all he really wanted to do was curl up and lick his wounds. 

'George loves playing with him' Louise had bravely said, standing her ground in the local supermarket when she'd bumped into Jim McCartney, trolley held in front of her like a sword.  
Jim had blinked, put on the spot.  
'Playing? Bit old for that now.'  
Louise had tightened her mouth. He'd chosen to deliberately misunderstand.  
'Music, Jim. On their instruments.'  
She wasn't letting this go.  
He'd huffed. Muttered something about it being a waste of time, and tried to dodge round her with his trolley which was, Louise couldn't help but note with a practised eye, full of ready-done meals, loaves of bread and very little in the way of fresh fruit and vegetables. She made a mental note to invite Paul round soon for a proper home cooked meal. And, she thought, maybe his brother too ... and then what about Jim? She couldn't leave him out .... but neither was she sure she'd be able to withhold her tongue either. She made a quick mental adjustment ... she'd make a meal and send it round with George.  
'All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy' she'd quoted.  
'But a rich one, eh?" Jim had swiped back quickly.  
'Money doesn't bring happiness' she quoted, then cringed. For Godsake, how many quotes did she have up her sleeve?  
'Maybe not, but at least it puts food on the plates.' Jim looked quite rumpled, his feathers, if he'd had them, sticking up.  
She didn't have an answer to that ... well, she did, but she wasn't going to use it. She saw an old man who was struggling to make ends meet and cope at the same time with two  
lively and probably rebellious teenagers. And she felt for him.  
'I'm sorry, Jim' she said softly, and pulled her trolley out of his way.  
For a moment he'd still stood there, his tired eyes regarding her, then had nodded briskly, packing away his feelings ... just, she thought, like she'd seen Paul do ... and moved on.

But, later that week, she had made a lasagne for the McCartney family, and sent it round in the willing arms of her youngest, who presented it with such a big smile Jim couldn't feel resentful.  
'Geo?' Paul had appeared at the door, close on the footsteps of his dad, his eyes widening in delight at the dish of food.  
'That for us?'  
Smile still wider than a Cheshire cat's, George nodded.  
'Paul, shouldn't you be layin' the table?' The reminder from his father was an admonition.  
Paul dithered, then nodded, disappearing back in the direction of the kitchen.  
Jim had turned back to George, removing the dish from his hands.  
'I thank ye're mam kindly, young man. Will y' pass on my regards?' and the dish was taken from his hands.  
As the door began to close, George started, having the presumption ... he had no idea where THAT had suddenly come from ... to put his foot in the door.  
Jim had looked pointedly at the offending limb.  
'I was 'oping I could hang out with Paul for a bit ... after ... after tea, y'know ....' George gulped, suddenly feeling very, very small.  
Jim's frown deepened.  
'No, sorry, son, he can't do that. He's got his exams to revise for. His A levels. Thank yer mam for me. A kind thought.'  
And the door had been quietly but firmly closed in George's face.

George dropped the pencil he'd been tapping his teeth with back into the pot and leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest, a thoughtful frown on his face. The memories had come rushing back to him. Things he'd thought forgotten. Postcard memories of his, probably, oldest boyhood friend. The one he'd finally got back. Eventually.

This time it had been Jim who'd stopped Louise in the supermarket, barring her way with his trolley, bursting with news.  
'He's got a First!'  
Louise had halted, confused, then realised. Although she wasn't particularly across the marking system .... after all, none of hers had gone to university ... she wasn't so isolated that she didn't have, at least, some idea. And it didn't take a genius to work out that a First was, obviously, good.  
She switched a beaming smile on.  
'Congratulations to the boy' she proffered.  
Jim basked silently for a moment. It was all he'd been telling everyone all week. Anyone that knew him. Knew Paul. God, the whole of Allerton ... Liverpool ... knew by now.  
He stood there, nodding and beaming, clutching the handle of his trolley.  
Louise felt more was expected.  
'You must be proud of him'.  
Jim had nodded again.  
'He'll be coming home, soon, then, eh?'  
Her query was as much on the behalf of her son George as it was for herself. Her youngest had missed his friend so much, and there had been so little communication between the two of them this past year. Surely, now it was over and he ....  
' ... not coming back.'  
'Oh?' It was phrased as a question.  
Jim had shrugged. Slightly disturbed? she thought.  
'No ... he ... he's staying.' He suddenly brightened. 'Going to do an M.A. he tells me. In Children's Literature of the late 19th century.'  
'Oh, I see. Well, I guess all qualifications help ...'  
'This lecturer, you see. Seems to have taken a shine to our Paul. Taken him under his wing, y'know. Reckons he ought to go further with his academic studies. Got it all sorted, an' all. All the funding, an' that.'  
Jim frowned. It had been difficult to follow all of Paul's rushed explanation, but it appeared he'd been able to pick up bits of scholarships here and there and was going to be lodging with his tutor. Jim pushed away any niggling doubts that tried to force their way through.  
They came to an impasse, there in the aisle, trolleys butting noses.  
Louise nodded. 'I'm sure he'll do well.'  
Jim scratched his nose. 'Hmm, yes. Yes, he will.'  
'George misses him.'  
She couldn't keep it in. It popped out, and Jim blinked again, startled.  
'Oh! Oh, right, I'll, er, tell him to contact him, then, shall I, when I speak to him?'  
She cocked her head. 'Is he not coming home for the summer?'  
Jim's gaze strayed across the cereals stacking that aisle.  
'No. No, he ... er ... he has a job. Doing a bit of marking. And some tutoring ... y'know ... like ... G.C.S.E.'s an' that.'  
No, she didn't know. To her that was a job that could be done as easily in Liverpool as in Manchester. After all, the cities weren't that far away from each other.  
'Oh, I see. I expect his brother misses him too?'  
Jim thought about that. They were so different. Very different.  
'I don't know.'  
Louise gave herself a mental shake. The conversation was deteriorating, and she needed to move on.  
'Well, if he does come home, get him to ring our George, will you?'

No phone call had ever come.  
George gave up trying to ring, and instead shot off the odd text which, once in a blue moon, was answered. To all intents and purposes, it appeared Paul had dropped him as a friend, and George pushed aside any bitterness he felt in favour of trying to cherish his favourite memories of the lad he'd considered to be his best mate. Until he returned home, unexpected and unlooked for, twelve months later. 

'Paul, we've been offered a gig ..... nah. Nah, that's not ... Hey, Paulie, d'you fancy doing a bit of playi ... no. No, no, no, no. I know ... Paul, we've got a chance of earning some ...no. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.' George scratched his head. How to put it to him.  
"Got any ball end Martin strings for an acoustic, mate?"  
The young guy at the counter had an amused smile on his face, and George had the feeling that he'd been listening to a one-sided conversation. Blushing, George moved across to the stand.  
"Yeah, sure. What guage?"  
Even as he completed the transaction, George had still not fathomed out how to introduce the idea to Paul, and the trouble was ... he really wanted to do it. Really did.  
He tightened his lips with determination.  
Somehow, he'd get Paul to agree.

 

"Did you ask him?"  
Ringo shrugged himself out of his jacket, and smoothed back his hair.  
"Evening to you, too, John" he replied pointedly.  
He heard John growl under his breath. He'd have made a good lion, Ringo thought. Quite lionesque anyway with that mane of auburn hair.  
Hmm ... don't prod the lion too hard, eh?  
"Yes, I did. And he said he'll ask Paul later an' let me know. How's your day gone?"  
John, being impatient as he was, wanting everything yesterday, took a moment to absorb Ringo's question. His face suddenly lit up.  
"Awesome. Y'know Cyn .. well, yes, 'course y' know Cyn, well, her flatmate, Emma, I think her's called, well, she works at the library, see ... y' know, the big one in the centre, yeah ... Central Library, and Cyn said, 'cos I rang her to tell her my ideas, that they're always having clear-outs, when, like, books get too tatty, haven't been used for a long time, whatever, and that we can have them, an' even if they're a bit rubbish, well, we can still scatter them round the place, an' it'll look good, yeah?"  
Ringo followed the enthusiastic chatter with a raising of eyebrows, amusement all over his face. It was good to see John involved, animated, his mother and disastrous relationships forgotten ... for the moment.  
"Sounds good" he put in once John paused for breath.  
John's grin grew even wider.  
"An, what is more ...... " he paused dramatically, and Ringo prepared himself for another barrage of words. He was pleasantly surprised.  
"Tea's ready. I've done chicken and chips, how's that?"  
"Sounds even better" Ringo beamed, heartily relieved.  
"Did, er, George sound ... interested?"  
Ringo slung his jacket on the back of a kitchen chair and considered the question. Such a dark horse sometimes, that one. Not always easy to guage what was going on underneath that shaggy hair and impenetrable gaze.  
"I think so."  
"Think? Only ... think?"  
"Well, he needs to ask his friend. He's not just gonna leap in and say yes, is he?"  
John stuffed his fingers in his pockets and ruminated. "Uhm, yeah, guess not."  
"Anyway, he'll ask him tonight, okay?"  
John shrugged. He might be tingling with impatience to get going on his ideas but, obviously, he had to wait for the slow pace of the world to turn first.  
"Hmm, yeah, 'kay."

 

George tried so many ways to approach the subject. Ran so many conversations in his head ... each one having the advantage of Paul enthusiastically agreeing, of course .... a fact which George knew full well probably wouldn't happen. While he was musing on this, he heard the front door of their apartment flat open, and the familiar sound of Paul entering. Without being able to see George knew full well that he was first hanging up his coat, then removing his shoes. George added boiling water to the teabag that sat in the mug. Better let the lad chill first before asking him. No good bombarding him with it.  
"Hi. Okay?" Paul's voice made him jump. He'd not heard him open the kitchen door. As if Paul could read his thoughts, George found himself blushing. Then blushed even more at the fact he was blushing, 'cos he never blushed. No, that was Paul's thing. He found Paul was observing him curiously.  
"Yeah, I'm good, ta. Just making you a mug of tea ... phew, bit warm in here, innit?" and George fanned himself with a leaflet from the local Labour Party that just happened to be lying around.  
One thin finely arched eyebrow rose, considering.  
"Erm, could be. Dunno. I've only just walked in."  
"How was your day?" Switch the topic, George, he advised himself.  
"Good." Paul nodded complacently. "Really good, ta. Millie's found somewhere that will print the posters and we hope to be getting information into the schools by the beginning of next week. Er ... you still making me that tea, 'cos ... it'll be stewed, like, at this rate."  
George started, and quickly removed the teabag. Really, Paul'd be guessing something was up if he didn't control himself. He stirred in a spoonful of sugar and added milk, watched all the time by Paul, who was twiddling his keys round and round in a most annoying way. They made a tinging noise each time they hit the kitchen counter and the sound was so fuckin' rhythmic it was driving George insane. He swiftly reached out and stilled Paul's hand, and this time it was Paul that started, his eyes widening. Ten to one he'd not even realised he was doing it.  
"Fidget fingers" George teased, feeling himself relax at the cessation of noise.  
A slight smile graced Paul's lips. He found it difficult to be still, and knew it drove his more contemplative friend crazy.  
"Sorry" he shrugged. "Anyway, how was your day, then?"  
This was his opener. His chance.  
George looked at Paul, considering.  
He didn't know what to do, or how to say it.  
Paul dropped the offending keys on the counter and picked up his mug of tea, blowing softly before taking a sip, his eyes never leaving George's face.  
"Er, good, yeah, ta. Good."  
Bugger. Bugger bugger damn. Should just have said.  
"No major shifts in the world of guitar strings then?" Paul teased, the steam from the mug tingeing his face pink.  
George recalled the guy who'd come in for some Martin strings while he was practising how to ask Paul the question.  
ThE QueStIOn.  
"George?"  
George let out a weird noise, a cross between a hiss and a shriek.  
Paul looked startled.  
George was pretty alarmed too.  
Where on earth had that noise come from?  
He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders.  
It was now or never.  
"Paul, I have something to ask you ......"


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for everyone's patience ... finally an update .. and yes, they meet, but ... not properly yet. Comments always enjoyed.

"Paul, I have something to ask you ......"

Paul froze, mug half-way to lips. His heart plummeted to the place his stomach resided, and his stomach plummeted to his feet. A noise of rushing water filled his ears, and his brain began to whirr at a phenomenal rate. This ... this was it ... wasn't it. George was going to ask him if he was gay ... that's what was coming. He knew it .... he just bloody knew it, and the trouble was .... he didn't know. He just dIdN't KnoW!! He'd hoped it wouldn't come to that, the being asked, that is, 'cos he didn't know how to answer 'cos fuck, how could he answer when he didn't know, 'cos, yeah, he'd liked girls. He'd had girls, by the dozen, and George knew that ... had looked on in amusement and a touch of envy at Paul's acquisition of the opposite sex, but now ... HE DIDN'T KNOW ... his brain screeched. After Brendan ... well, that was a different ball game, excuse the pun. He'd done things, tried things, experienced such exquisite pleasure that he'd never found in the arms of any female. Did that make him gay? He was confused. ConFUsEd dot.com. He didn't know. And now George, his best friend, the one who'd rescued him from the depths of despair, who he'd shared this flat with for two years, and who knew ... who FUCKING KNEW ... that in that time Paul hadn't had a girl. He had, however, become intimate with his left hand, and shit, George probably knew that too 'cos walls were thin, and he was really hoping .... really, TrUlY, HonEsTlY hoping George wouldn't ask him that. Or ... ask him anything, really. 'Cos he DIDN'T know. He just .... didn't ....

George stopped halfway, hearing Paul's breathing become erratic, sensing the total meltdown of his best mate, and .... he couldn't do it.  
He just couldn't do it.  
He didn't know what Paul thought he was about to be asked but he had a pretty good idea, and George, being George, had never pushed. Never asked. Given Paul time to figure things out 'cos, y'know, hey, he was a bright kid and would probably sort out his sexuality at some point.  
Bugger the playing thing.  
He'd have to figure another way of asking.  
Somehow.

" ...... do you want pie and chips or pizza for tea?"

George's eyes widened in astonishment. Had he just said that? Where had it come from?   
Well, whatever part of his mind had dredged the thought up, he was thankful.

He saw Paul's mug wobble as the lad put it on the kitchen counter, relief flooding his face.  
His stomach returned to it's rightful place, pushing the heart into it's space too, and his carousel of a whirring thoughts slowed down, automatic brakes going on.

Paul let out an exhale of air that meant he probably hadn't breathed for about three minutes or however long the impasse had lasted.  
The room stopped spinning, and equilibrium was resumed.

The two guys looked at each other, tucking their emotions neatly away, questions remaining unspoken, unanswered.

"Pizza, please" said Paul in a small voice.

 

John was busy making a list of books.  
Ringo was hopeful that he might acquire a little more space in the house.  
He eagerly suggested to John .... not that he was particularly a reader .... titles such as the one's he'd seen piled on their toilet windowsill.  
John hummed. He wasn't really listening. He was thinking. Thinking about what books they ought to have.  
He reckoned Cyn could help him there. He didn't have much idea of chick fics.  
In fact, he had none. And he guessed they ought to have some kind of light reading on hand.  
Classics.  
Now that he could deal with.  
This .... this was gonna be fun.  
Plus ... those musicians. He'd already ear-marked a corner of the cafe bar where he could put them.  
A neat alcove where they could be tucked away. Heard and seen but not tripped over.  
Seemed good to him.

He rubbed his nose thoughtfully, unknowingly spreading blue ink from the felt tip pen down it's length.  
"Any word from them musicians?"  
Ringo suddenly became interested in the contents of the mug cupboard. He'd hoped John wouldn't ask him that 'cos he'd not seen George and he didn't want to disappoint John, but he really wasn't sure if they would be interested. Or, at least, if George's friend would be interested. He could tell, from George's reaction, that his mate would probably be the sticking point. He chinked a few mugs around, re-arranging them, and John grew suspicious.  
"Ringo?" he enquired sharply.  
Ringo looked up and banged his head on the cupboard door.  
"Ow! Fucking hell. What?" His retort was as sharp as John's, and John narrowed his eyes at him.  
"Them musicians .... George and Phil.....?"  
"Paul" Ringo automatically corrected, rubbing the top of his head.  
John waved a dismissive hand.  
" ...... whatever. Any word yet?"  
"No" said Ringo sullenly "I'd have told you if they had."  
John paused, pen rolling in his fingers.  
"They not interested, then?"  
Ringo shrugged. "Dunno." Well, that was a lie, wasn't it. He hastened to correct it, not wanting John to feel annoyance at his friend. "Well, reckon George could be, but not too sure about his mate."  
John latched quickly on to that.   
"Well, would George do it, then? A solo act?"  
Seemed obvious, didn't it? When you thought about it.  
"Dunno" Ringo said again. Something niggled at the back of his mind. "Think George prefers to play with Paul though 'cos he's a better singer. An', like, I think they do a lot of harmonies."  
He was sure he'd heard George say that word.  
'Harmony singing'.  
He felt quite smug recalling a word that didn't, in truth, mean anything to him.  
"Harmonies" John murmured quietly, digesting the information.  
"And ..... " Ringo had another thought that showed he'd not been working at it and not slacking " George wanted to know how much they were being paid."  
John blinked, startled. "Paid?"  
Ringo folded his arms across his chest. Gotcha there, Lennon, he thought smugly.  
"Paid, yeah."

Fucking hell. John hadn't thought about payment. He had no idea what you paid for a duo .... what was the going rate for a couple of guys with guitars? Or even one guy with a guitar? I mean .... the idea of getting a live music act for a night was to bring more customers in to earn money, not spend it. But then ....  
He leaned back thoughtfully in his chair, twirling the pen. Made sense, didn't it? Really? That they'd want paying? For their services?  
Jesus! He'd have to run that over Brian, and hope they brought in more money than the bar had to fork out.  
He just hoped they were bloody good.  
If they agreed to it.  
If...... big if there.  
He shifted in his chair, trying to make himself look in charge and cool with it all, not taken on the hop.  
"I'll find out what the going rate is" he said majestically and with a tone that shut the conversation down.

 

The beginning of March brought in the wind and icy shards of rain that slanted at various and improbable angles, getting under umbrellas and inside jackets and soaking hair and chilling faces. Despairing of keeping up his umbrella, Paul had folded it down, gritting his teeth against the weather, and squinted through half closed eyes for the arrival of the bus. Although he'd been one of the first in the queue courtesy demanded that he let a couple of older women on first, one of whom was fussing about her muddied up tights when a van had taken the nearby corner too sharply and had caused a spray from a large puddle to cover the waiting passengers. The bus, when it arrived .... five minutes late .... was absolutely crowded, and Paul only just managed to squeeze on to the platform, clinging determinedly and resolutely to the metal pole. The unfortunate people behind him in the queue were dismissed by the driver with a curt 'Full up. You'll have to get the one following' and the bus lurched off. Paul gripped the pole tighter as his body swung with the momentum, and the woman with the muddied up tights glared at him as he accidentally banged into her.  
"Sorry" he murmured, pushing wet hair out of his eyes, while secretly thinking next time she can wait.

It seemed everyone was in a bad mood. Somewhere a child ... toddler, probably ... was having a major meltdown, the screams ricocheting around the bus. Grumbles and muttering seemed the word of the day. The one advantage of a full bus, though, was the speed of the journey as it sailed past all it's usual stops to the dismay of other waiting passengers who glared at it's passage with damnation in their eyes. At this rate, Paul thought, he'd be in early. And despite the weather he was looking forward to today. Today the posters he'd designed were going to be delivered and his idea would become fruition. 

The bus halted at the edge of the city centre to let a couple of workers off, and everyone shuffled a little further down the bus. Paul was glad of some extra space, and wriggled his toes in his damp shoes. He was sure his socks were wet, though his shoes didn't have a hole. This blooming rain got in everywhere. He glanced up, and there, towards the back of the bus, was Mr. Paperback Man, well-worn book in front of his face. He appeared an oasis of calm amongst the seething mass of passengers, and Paul fixed his eyes on him, taking the chance of the other being preoccupied with reading. He looked so ... so ... well, homely, somehow. Sitting there, reading, like he didn't have a care in the world. Of course, Paul reminded himself, he had a girlfriend. She probably packed him off every morning with a peck on his cheek. That thought brought with it a pang of jealousy that Paul never thought to question.  
It also brought another thought.  
Shit! Emma!  
Paul winced.  
He'd been so tied up with his project that he'd not given her much attention.  
He'd waltzed merrily out of the staff entrance to the building yesterday evening only to hear a somewhat cutting voice say "And 'bye to you too, Paul."

He'd been in a happy place. Millie had caught him and told him his designs looked amazing in print and that they were going to be delivered tomorrow and she had contacted various places that were happy to display them, as well as the schools that wished to be involved, and that, as initiator of the project, he could spend the next few days going round the town taking them out and seeing them displayed. It gave Paul such a buzz, but also made him feel somewhat guilty. It meant he was leaving everything to Emma.  
Millie waved away his concern.  
"Not a problem, Paul. I'll help her. There's not a lot on anyway at the moment. Go and see the schools that are going to be involved." She paused, then beamed at him. "You can be our P.R. man."  
P.R. man!  
Paul did a tiny jiggle of delight, and added 'P.R.' onto his qualifications mentally in his head, his imagination already taking flight.  
Millie noted the somewhat glazed expression and hid a smile.  
"I'm sure you'll do it very well."

He'd been so excited to tell George .... who had seemed rather .... preoccupied lately. Paul wondered, for a moment ... one very, very, brief moment, if George had any concerns he didn't know about???? ... then dismissed the thought. P.R. man for the project. Wait till he told George. Wait till he told his dad and Mike.  
His footsteps carried him at speed out of the door.

"And 'bye to you too, Paul."

He turned, almost tripping over his feet, his face flooding guiltily.  
In all the excitement he'd forgotten Emma.  
In fact .... he'd not thought about her at all.  
And it was like a stone weight dropping.  
Commitments.  
CoMMiTmENts!!  
Ugh!!  
He didn't want commitments.  
He didn't want the burden of a girlfriend.  
Shit ... he'd rather have his left hand ... fuck!! didn't mean that .. that's embarrassing ... hope no-one can read my mind, bet George can ... oh God, don't want to go out ... don't wanna make plans ... don't ... don't ...  
It was like a bull elephant halting in it's tracks in his head.

I don't want Emma.

There it was, the thought, clear as day.  
I mean ... she was a nice girl and all that ... pretty, yeah, curvy ... but ... a bit pushy for Paul and ... and .. and ...  
He really didn't fancy her, and he searched in his mind for why he had taken her out in the first place ...  
oh ... yeah ... his dad.

He'd rung the family home last night. Actually made the effort. Spoken to Mike. Had loads to tell him about this project. Had even promised to pop over and show him (them) the posters and that when they were printed, and then his dad had come on the phone ... falsely jolly, as he always was with Paul ... as if his eldest son was an unexploded bomb that might go off if not treated with caution. Paul had told him all about the project and the designs he'd done and his dad had hummed and hawed at appropriate places, then out the blue had asked "And how's Emma?"  
Paul had stopped, startled.  
For a moment he had to think who the fuck was Emma, his head so full of sailing ships and treasure islands.  
Then he remembered.  
Why had his dad had to ask that?  
And why had he made it sound so ... important?  
As if she was a member of their family?  
Paul ground to a halt, his thoughts stuttering along with his voice.  
"Er ... er ... erm ...."

 

"And bye to you too Paul."  
He turned, slowly, to meet a pair of dark angry eyes glaring at him.  
She was, truly, affronted. She'd always been able to have her pick of lads. Played with them, dandled them, messed around, then moved on to the next. Never, ever, had she had one that just did not seem interested in her ... and, what was more .... what was the REAL rub ... was so fucking attractive. Who looked so good on her arm. Damn!!!  
She watched as colour suffused Paul's face, saw him searching for something to say, and she exploded.  
"Don't bother!" she spat.  
Paul opened and closed his mouth.   
He hadn't said a word anyway.  
She tugged her raincoat around her small frame viciously, as if it was partly at fault for the predicament she found herself in.  
"Anything you say will just be an insult."  
Paul looked wordlessly at her, buttoning his mouth tightly in case something did slip out.  
"You're just not interested, are you, Paul?"  
It was a statement. Not a question.  
And, scarily, Paul found himself in agreement.  
And, even more scarily, didn't want to face the reason why.

 

John glanced up from the book poised in front of his face. He wasn't really reading it. Just hiding behind it while he thought. And, oh God, were his thoughts mixed up. Sorting his idea for the book/bar/cafe, sorting musicians, sorting his mother's visit out, while she danced merrily through his ideas, trailing her red hair behind her, voice full of giggles and laughter. It was all too much. He became aware of a shuffling down the bus as it disgorged it's passengers near to the city centre, and glancing up he saw Mr. Camel Coat, hair windswept and looking far from it's usual tidy self. At the same moment Mr. Camel Coat met eyes with him and a faint blush stained his cheeks. Curious, John lowered his book, and held eye contact. Defiantly, Mr. Camel Coat raised his chin and met the stare partway.

Stalemate.

The bus shrank to just the two of them. Every one else faded into the background.

A slight smile touched John's lips, and it was returned.  
Fucking hell, the guy was gorgeous.  
John felt his cock twitch and mentally told it to stay down.  
Letting go Paul's eyes, John glanced around, surprised at what he saw. Rarely was the bus this empty. Well, not that it was empty, exactly .... I mean, people were still standing, clutching the metal poles, looking wet and bored and totally fed-up, but it wasn't absolutely crowded. Glancing at his watch, John realised the bus was slightly earlier than usual. Of course, it had been so full it hadn't stopped to pick up any new passengers, and now it was so near the city centre and it's terminal that no one else wanted to get on. There was a quiet hum; almost impossible to hear. Just ... people breathing. Relaxing. Nearly there. Nearly there. Get off the bus, get into work, shake of umbrellas and coats, tidy hair, put the kettle on, whinge to your colleagues about the awful weather.

A few more passengers exited the bus, including the guy who'd been sitting next to John, leaving behind a tattered Metro on the seat. John glanced down idly at the headlines. Bound to be full of Brexit. The shuffle of feet moving along the aisle caught his ears, and then ... then ....

Eyes looking down at him caused him to start. Mr. Camel Coat, level with the empty seat next to John. The guy was looking somewhat flustered ... the obvious thing to do was sit on the vacant seat but ....

..... but it was next to Mr. Paperback Man, and Paul had not forgotten the feel of fingers touching his hair, of that weird, glazed stare through thick black framed glasses. What did he do? What did he ... do? In a situation like this? He didn't want to cause offence, but .... well, he was a bit ... strange, wasn't he? Although, also ... also .... 

..... Fuck! John wasn't sure if he could cope. His willy was making encouraging moves in his jeans, in full defiance of John's ... logical ... wishes.

..... A magnet! That's what Mr. Paperback Man was. A magnet. Drawing Paul to him. With invisible strings ... pulling, tugging .... Paul clutched the metal pole defiantly. He's got a girlfriend, he chanted to himself in his head. He's got a girlfriend ... a girlfriend ... a girlfriend .... a girl ........

"You gonna sit down then, or what?"   
John gave into his bodily desires, angry at himself that he couldn't control the warm feeling in his groin, therefore his voice came out sounding sharp. But the anger was at himself, not at Mr. Camel Coat.

Wide hazel eyes flashed ... surprise at being spoken to, particularly in such a tone of voice, and fingers tightened round the pole, white at the knuckles.

Fuck! John could have kicked himself. He hadn't meant to sound so rude, but, really, this guy ... he needed to be labelled as dangerous. Shouldn't be let loose on the Liverpool buses. Should be parcelled up and marked 'Sex. Beware.' John groaned, covering his bulge with his book. Why oh why did he always go for undesirables? Unavailables? Not suitables? I mean ... this guy had a girlfriend. He'd seen her with him. Bet she packed him up sandwiches every morning and that's what he was carrying in that lap top bag. Yeah, that was it. A cosy, domestic situation, giving him a peck on the cheek to see him off in a morning, waiting to greet him at night when he returned. Jesus, what John would give to be greeted by someone like that at night. To have someone like that in his bed ... stop it ... stop it, John.

He tiredly scrubbed a hand over his eyes, dislodging the knitted hat perched on his head, causing a few tendrils of auburn hair to escape.  
Paul unconsciously licked his lips.

"Look, sorry, didn't mean to ...." John waved his hand at the vacant seat. "Please, sit down."

He could do this. He could steel himself to hold firm against this guy sitting next to him (even if really he wanted to rip his clothes off, see if he looked as good underneath as he anticipated, have mad passionate sex with him because ....)

"Thanks. I'm a bit wet."

John blinked bemusedly at being spoken to. A melodic voice, slight ... very slight ... hint of a Liverpool accent. The kind of voice that Mimi would have approved of. 'Not your usual loud mouthed Scousers, John.'

Paul settled himself, his eyes on his actions, pulling his coat around himself so that he didn't drip onto (or invade ... Jesus, don't want to invade) the space of the man next to him. Mr. Paperback Man. He was, actually, really, truly, sitting next to him. Paul's heart rate accelerated, though he made his face an impassive mask. All the same, he couldn't help but be assaulted by the warmth ... and the smell ... homely, yes ... everything Paul had hoped it would be .... clean laundry. Bread. Coffee. He forced himself to be still, to take shallow breaths, lest he be too drawn in. He wondered what it would be like to be hugged by someone who smelt like that. The security ... he fixed his eyes firmly on the wet toes of his shoes. Need to polish them tonight.

John froze. God, he couldn't do this. The guy smelt of cologne and ... sex and ... bed and ... sex and ... bed ... well, no he didn't, not really. But he did smell of cologne .. and shampoo. And ... wet coat. Yeah, definitely wet coat.

John cleared his throat. Maybe he should say something. Something ... normal.  
What was normal?

"Mucky weather, innit?"

Paul's heart shot into his mouth and he cursed that particular organ for being so bloody unpredictable. After all, this guy next to him was so cool, with his leather jacket and his glasses and his knitted hat and Paul could never, not ever, pull off a look like that in a hundred years, no sir, he'd just look ....  
He swallowed, forcing his heart back down, out of his throat, into his chest where it belonged.

"Yes."  
Jesus!! Couldn't he think of something wittier to say? Like 'lovely weather for ducks' or whatever. Not a simple, bland, yes. He was supposed to have a degree in English, for Godsake. He firmly fixed his eyes on the head of the guy in front of him, feeling John glance at him. He didn't want to see the disappointment in Mr. Paperback Man's eyes at such a boring response. God, this guy was always reading. Bet he was witty. Really witty. Plenty to say. Never stumped like Paul for what to say or, even worse, come out with a load of drivel.

A slight smile touched John's lips. He could feel the discomfiture of the guy next to him. To be fair, if roles were reversed he could understand why Mr. Camel Coat was rather apprehensive. John had never yet been able to question his actions that day on the bus, when he saw Paul get on carrying a guitar, looking so fucking attractive in jeans and .. and ...

Guitar!!!

"Here, d'you play guitar?"

Paul opened his mouth in surprise, shut it again, gave himself a mental shake, and faced John.

"Er, yeah. A bit."

John was never sure what was meant by 'a bit'. He loved music and had followed the local scene with great interest. Some people said 'a bit' and were bloody awful, others said 'a bit' and were awesome. What would this guy mean by 'a bit'? John had a feeling, looking at him, that he'd be the kind who would probably play his skills down.

John tapped his fingers on his knees, thinking. Paul's question, returned, took him by surprise.

"Do you?"

The words were clearly, and politely, enunciated.   
They sounded so ... posh!!

John raised an eyebrow teasingly, seeing the younger (yeah, he'd figured he was younger, with that baby face) colour.  
"Do I what?" he replied in a put on posh accent. "Do I take my tea with milk? Do I holiday in St. Tropez? Do I ..."

"Play guitar" Paul put in firmly, meeting the challenge with a spark in those dark eyes. (God, those eyes ... those achingly beautiful eyes that John could get lost in ... imagine him beneath you, hair scattered across a white pillow ... what would they look like after making love).

John recrossed his legs. This was becoming uncomfortable. Persistently so.

"Er, yeah, a bit". He winced, realising he'd echoes Paul's response ... and his voice had come out sounding slightly ... higher ... than usual ... fuck! Damn. Bloody body parts.

Suddenly, Paul smiled. A whole, face lit up, eyes crinkling smile, and ... that was it ... John was well and truly fucked. He imagined his head as a Disney film with birds singing and stars bursting and rainbows appearing and bells ringing and ... 

He smiled back.

And Paul was lost ... those eyes, so warm behind those glasses, full of wit and humour and life, and those shoulders, broad to rest a head on, and tiny white teeth that could nip and ... stop it, Paul!!

"Two bits, then" John grinned, and Paul chuckled, relaxing, tugging his bag nearer to him to prevent it getting wet on the floor of the bus.

"Why d'you ask?" Paul enquired, eyebrow raised, and oh God if that wasn't an amazing eyebrow ... it could have held a conversation on it's own, so expressive ... so was the other one ... John wondered, idly, if Paul plucked them ... maybe he'd ask him, one day ... 

"Ah, well, y'see .... I bet you don't know how much someone would normally get paid for doing a gig, do you? Not, like, a big one ... just a local bar. I'm trying to organise something, see, where I work, but I don't know what the going rate is?" Phew! A coherent sentence .... well, it must have made sense because Mr. Camel Coat was now chewing his thumb and looking thoughtful (God, wouldn't John like to be that thumb, being nibbled like that between those delicious looking lips).

"Hmmm ... well, I haven't done anything like that for a while now, but for a couple of sets, that's about forty minutes or so each set, it's about £140. There's something called mate's rates ... so, if it's like the first time you've tried it and you don't have a big budget but want to see how it goes .. will it pay, like ... then mate's rates is about £100 for an evening, no commitments." Paul glanced at John when no response came. "That help?"

God, that was Mr. Camel Coats longest ever sentence to him and John loved to listen to his voice, then partway through had realised Paul was giving him valuable information, and suddenly switched on.

"Oh! Oh, yeah, ta. So ... is that for one person, or?..."

Paul was already shaking his head. "No, that tends to be for however many are playing ... " he scrunched his face up (adoringly).  
"Ah, right, so ... same for two as for one? Or even three?"  
Paul nodded. "Yeah. Bars can't just cover per person, it tends to be per act. Or, at least, it used to be, and I doubt if it's changed."  
John nodded wisely. He had a feeling this guy knew more about this matter than he did ... well, he obviously did.  
"Used to do it, did y'?"  
A shadow crossed Paul's face, and for a moment John wished he'd not asked that question.  
It seemed the light went out, and the life dimmed.  
"Yeah. Used to. With a friend."

Paul's head suddenly shot up, eyes panicked.  
"Jesus, this is my stop!"  
He pressed the bell frantically while grabbing his bag and shooting to his feet.  
He'd almost gone before John thought to call "Thanks! Thanks for your help."  
Paul paused for a split second, a smile ... a smile just for John ... that he caught and held and cherished.  
"No probs."


End file.
